


Sweet But Psycho

by Aussi18



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 127,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussi18/pseuds/Aussi18
Summary: Queen Regina is a portrait of self-loathing, drowning in the loss of control that has repeatedly been stripped from her since she was a child. Some call her Evil, and she doesn’t doubt that she is, for her black heart is filled with nothing but darkness and contempt, hatred and malice. But one dark and fateful night, destiny intervenes - her guards capture a man, a thief who, even when she tortures him with her very best punishments, she is unable to break. Regina quickly becomes infatuated with him, obsessed with exercising control over something of her own, almost enjoying the way he distracts her from the rest of her hellish life. But the Thief has his own agenda, and if he has his way, he won’t be the only one getting punished.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Comments: 138
Kudos: 109





	1. To Catch a Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This story is complete and all chapters will be posted as quickly as possible.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS - graphic violence, torture, murder, suicidal thoughts and attempts, self-harm, intense self-loathing, sexual assault, references to past sexual assault, marital rape, panic attacks, domestic violence, degradation, humiliation, and probably several other dark themes. Please remember that you have been warned, and it is definitely NOT my intention to upset or trigger anyone with the content. I will warn you at the beginning of chapters where this content is described in depth. Just know these themes linger throughout.
> 
> And while this fic has some dark parts in it, it is not ALL dark. It DOES indeed have a happy ending. And fluff, humor, and smut.
> 
> Speaking of smut... this is filthy. It is NOT, I repeat, NOT vanilla. Dirty things are about to happen. So, if you're not into a bit of bondage, or if a bit of anal squicks you out, well, don't cry to me about it. You've been warned. Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Trigger Warning - References to child abuse, marital rape, torture, and description of a suicide attempt 

The Queen’s heart is well on its way to black when she catches the Thief for the first time.

Regina is not to blame for the corruption, or at least, not all of it. She has a penchant for darkness, certainly, but more importantly, her survival has depended on it. Long before Regina accepted her current path - one that is paved with death, destruction, and dismay - she somehow managed to make it through her youth, which according to all accounts, was nothing short of harrowing.

She is the only royal heir of the Kingdom of Misthaven, the daughter of King Henry and the dreaded Queen Cora, who is a merciless, terrifying woman known far and wide for her rare and powerful ability to cast magic. Indeed, what early memories Regina has of Cora all involve cowering from her mother’s fury and force, bending beneath her magic and manipulation, bloodying her knees and breaking her will until obedience had been drilled into her with military precision. Her father, a kind man, was of little use. He claimed to love her, but it was never enough to save her from the vile temper of the monster that was her mother, and so Regina spent her childhood completely unprotected while her father stood aside, bowing his head in shame so as not to bear witness to the abuse.

Her teenage years saw little improvement. When her magic manifested but failed to develop in the way Cora apparently had expected, Regina instantly became a complete disappointment. The next thing she knew, she was simply a bargaining chip, and a political agreement had been struck to ensure that the second Regina came of age, she was to be married off to King Leopold of the Enchanted Forest, a powerful and well-positioned Monarch that would prove to be a strong ally to Misthaven.

She objected with vigor - pleaded with her mother to reconsider, she even dared to throw a fit of temper over it, but Cora would not budge on the decision. So when peaceful protests didn’t work, Regina attempted every avenue of escape she could possibly think of, all to no avail. Cora somehow always managed to catch her in the act, and the final time she caught Regina, she had been punished _severely._ Cora had lost her patience, and in an act of retaliation she had Regina whipped, placed in the pillory and humiliated for _days_ in the streets of Misthaven for everyone to see. It had been atrocious, the worst experience in all her seventeen short years, and it had completely broken her. She was petrified, absolutely helpless, full of despair and trapped with every alternative exhausted, and so, just before her wedding, in one last desperate attempt to escape her fate, she had tried to take her own life.

Her father had found her before she bled out in her bedchamber though, and had hysterically shouted for her mother to save her. Cora had - though she had been furious, and as Regina slipped in and out of consciousness she had heard her mother berating her for her _insolence_ , for her _stupidity;_ going on and on about how _selfish she was_ , and how _dare she try to ruin this for her?_ She had forced healing potions, bitter herbs, and remedies into Regina until she regained just enough strength to stand on her own, and then, using magic, Cora had erased the tragic mess. She went on to heal Regina’s wrists of all evidence of the self-inflicted assault, and then, as a last bit of insurance, Cora had forced her daughter’s shaking legs to march down the aisle against her will, to move without her permission to the man that everyone knew would never love her.

All the while, her father stood silently in the front pew of the church, tears streaming down his face, hands at his sides, his eyes downcast, unable to watch as his only daughter was sentenced to the terrible future she was certain was in store for her.

As it turned out, Regina had been right to have cause for concern, for her married life has been no fairytale. King Leopold has been no savior of hers, no knight in shining armor. An exceedingly selfish man, Leopold is unashamed of his disregard for others, his only caveat being his daughter, Snow White, who at the time of their marriage was a toddler of three years old. He is arrogant and priggish, forty years her senior who, upon their first meeting, raked his hazel eyes unabashedly over her sixteen-year-old body and announced that she “would make a _sufficient_ substitute” for that of his dead first wife.

Not once in the thirteen years they have been married has it mattered that Regina has been labeled _the fairest_ by all who have had the luck of catching a glimpse of her. Not once has it mattered that Regina is positively stunning, that she is blessed with sharp, elegant features, thick, onyx-colored hair, almond shaped, golden-brown eyes, flawless olive-toned skin, ample curves, and lush red lips. Nevermind the fact that she is smart, cunning, and wise well beyond her years, that she is far more educated and well-mannered than even the most proper of Royals, that she can pass any test, can recite any text, can recall any fact and see through any lie that anyone dares to slip past her.

No, none of that matters, simply because she is not Leopold's first wife, and she will never measure up to the legendary perfection that was _Eva._

It is beyond tragic that Regina’s unique and exemplary attributes are wasted, overshadowed by the constantly demeaning comments of her husband - that is, on those rare occasions he isn’t flat out ignoring that she exists. Which, without fail, happen to be whenever his libido needs tending to.

And then she is merely _sufficient._

Others have noticed Regina’s beauty over the years, they have sensed her wild spirit, her dark humor, and have tried to reach out, to befriend her or perhaps even attempt something more. But Leopold is selfish, and possessive, and though he doesn’t want much to do with her, he doesn’t want anyone _else_ to have her either. So Regina is always alone.

Dreadfully, miserably, _infinitely_ alone.

So no, the putrid, blackened state of Regina’s heart is not entirely her fault.

She has not fully escaped her mother either, and while she no longer lives with Cora, she is somehow ever present, whispering in Regina’s ear of power and glory, of all the things her life will be ‘when the time is right.’ Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she’s being manipulated, that she should ask questions, that she should probably resist; but living through endless nights of an old man’s greedy hands and wrinkled member invading her body has left fissures in her brilliant mind, has all but destroyed her once audacious spirit, and she has simply lost the will to care.

This, combined with the King’s obsessive possession of her freedom has rotted the edges of Regina’s sanity, and has made the once sharp delineations between right and wrong, good and evil, appear blurry. It’s not that she doesn’t _want_ to see the differences in these things, it’s that no matter how hard she looks, she _cannot_ see them. Her world is filled with constant, consistent gray, her mind congested with unending uniformity, an adaptation that has enabled her to make despicable decisions without conscience while she shuts out the injustices that swirl around - pelting, striking, battering her day after day, year after year - minimizing them as if they were simply mild inconveniences, all of which would surely destroy her, were she able to recognize their severity.

This isn’t to say she doesn’t take responsibility for her actions. On the contrary, Queen Regina of the Enchanted Forest is more aware than anyone of each and every vile deed she has committed that has marred her heart. She can recount every punishment she has dealt - every snap of a neck, every slice of the guillotine - and if asked, she can probably calculate the number of lives ruined at her command.

And oh, there are many of them.

One of the few responsibilities she has been allowed is doling out judgments - for the King’s own heart is surprisingly weak when it comes to punishing his civilians. He dreads sullying his reputation as the “Kind King” and is more than happy to let her take the blame for what his people might deem unfair. So he's delegated the role of judge, jury, and executioner to her, so that he can stay blissfully and completely out of it.

It is the only avenue in her life in which the King gives her free rein, and Regina knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, so when it comes to hearing disputes, she takes full advantage. In fact, the Queen often exercises the maximum extent of their laws, (or worse, depending on her mood,) shamelessly using the opportunity to express her frustration at her own situation. She wields her judiciary power like the sharp edge of a dagger, and with each slice of a throat, she experiences a tiny bit of relief. Her punishments are severe, unyielding, and more often than not, fatal. She shows absolutely no mercy, makes no qualms about discarding civilians, throwing away their lives like she might throw out yesterday’s bread. And this nonchalance for her people is how Regina, who once had been pitied by Enchanted Foresters as their new _Child Bride_ , has recently come to be loathed and feared as their blackhearted _Evil Queen_.

* * *

With a reputation like hers, this thief she’s caught certainly knows what he’s getting into by attempting to steal from her, and while four of her guards bludgeon him against the cold, unyielding stones in the sitting area of her chambers, Regina tries to decide if she admires his casual recklessness, or detests his brash stupidity. Perhaps both.

He’s a fighter, this man, and a damned good one at that. After a few minutes of scuffling, he actually manages to knock one of her guards unconscious with a swift uppercut to his chin, then he brings another down when he produces a small knife and tosses it straight into the guard’s throat. Regina doesn’t interfere - her guards are either capable of subduing one common thief or they are not worthy of their post - and she is not afraid, for she has long accepted that if it is her time to go, she will greet death with her head held high.

The other two guards eventually prove their worth and secure the man, pinning him to the floor with his arms twisted up behind him as they kneel on his back. Gracelessly, they yank his hood down and pull his head up by his hair so that she can see his face, and one of them presses a long, curved dagger to his throat, looking to her for instruction regarding what comes next.

She opens her mouth to speak, but when her gaze falls on the man’s face, she promptly snaps it shut.

It’s him.

 _Gods above_ , it’s really _him._

She’s seen him before, or rather, she’s had an… encounter with this man, this _Thief_ , a couple of years ago. He looks a little different now, his face has a few more lines around his pretty blue eyes, his beard is fuller, his skin kissed by the sun, and there is perhaps a silver strand or two mixed in with the dark blonde hair at his temples.

But it’s definitely him.

Her stomach drops out and she clenches her thighs to subdue the sudden ache between them, trying her hardest not to lick her lips as the memory of that night crashes into her, causing tingly anticipation to rush through her chest and peak her nipples.

_Shit._

“Your Majesty?” one of her guards prompts, and she shakes herself out of the past, tips her chin up and narrows her eyes. She is a Queen, damnit, and it doesn’t matter that she recognizes this man, that he did… what he did that one time. That’s all in the past, and this is decidedly _now._

He is an intruder in her castle, and she’ll have him killed for it, of course.

The real question though, is _how_?

In an attempt to break up the monotony, she has been trying to mix things up as of late, and the usual ways have irritations she’d rather not deal with at this hour. Hanging is exceedingly dull - she nearly fell asleep in her throne the last time they strung up a few peasants, so it doesn’t hold much allure for her in general, let alone when it’s already so late in the evening. But beheading is _such_ a mess, and she knows from experience that it takes the servants ages to clean the courtyard once it’s done, so she doesn’t relish the idea of sullying her bedchambers and outright ruining her plush, white sheepskin rugs.

There are devices, of course - all sorts of tortuous little things with which Regina has been known to tear out a heart or a tongue, has taken great pleasure in crushing the pathetic, useless wind pipes of traitors and rebels who dared defy her, but she hates to waste the energy on someone as common as a thief.

Hmm.

Perhaps she’ll come up with something more… creative for him.

“Well done, mates!” the Thief interrupts her thoughts and grins, _laughs(!)_ at her guards while he shrugs under their punishing grip. “For a moment, I thought for certain that Queenie here was going to have to show you how it’s really done.”

Regina blinks at him in shock, stares in stunned silence for a moment at his silly, unwelcome familiarity. _No one_ has ever referred to her so casually. Just who does he think he is?

“I suggest you hold your tongue, Thief,” she snarls, her upper lip curling, “or I’ll have my guards deliver it to me on a silver platter.”

He has the audacity to laugh again, and she must admit that it is not an entirely offensive sound.

“Silver, you say? Now that does sound appealing, though I’d have thought platinum would be more to My Lady’s taste.” He winks - _fucking winks_ \- at her.

Regina feels her cheeks heat.

“Have some respect! It’s _Your Majesty_ ,” she corrects hotly.

The Thief grins - _Gods, why is he smiling so much?_ \- flashes his bright blue eyes and bumps his eyebrows up and down at her, then makes a teasing, sarcastic sounding little, _“Ohhh,”_ and nods slowly, deliberately, pretending as if this is news to him.

Regina sucks her teeth in irritation. This man is insufferable - she should get it over with and just separate his pretty head from his neck. Not that he's pretty - or rather, not that she'll admit it.

“Search him.”

Her guards strip him down for her, use their daggers and sheer force to rid him of every scrap of clothing, then turn out his pockets, but they find nothing that she can say for certain belongs to the monarchy.

“Nothing in your scrubby little pockets?” she mocks. “Tell me, Thief, how does it feel to have done all that work, to have come so far into my castle, only to have been caught well short of your goal?"

The Thief is willfully kneeling on the floor now with his hands folded neatly in his lap to cover his privates, but he hasn’t lost that fucking smirk, and it’s driving her insane.

“Who says I haven't met my goal?" He cocks his head to the side and raises one eyebrow like he’s challenging her, and pure rage rushes up her chest to color her face.

"Well if your goal is to be punished for being an insolent, trespassing failure of a burglar, who am I to get in your way?" she growls, then glances up to one of her guards - a lieutenant called Brody. "Take him to the dungeon for the night," she commands. "String him up by his thumbs in the courtyard at dawn."

Her guard nods solemnly and produces a pair of iron shackles for the Thief. "Yes, Your Majesty."

As they secure him, Regina decides she is looking forward to watching the Thief dangle in the morning. He’s in exceptionally good shape, his body bulky with clearly defined muscle, and she has to avert her eyes to avoid a blush when they bring him to his feet and he is bared to her. Normally she couldn’t care less about a peasant, but considering their… history, she can’t say she isn’t curious, and it takes everything in her not to stare at him as they drag him to her door.

While she readies for bed a few minutes later, Regina does her best to ignore the fact that stringing the Thief up by his thumbs won’t kill him - it’s simply torture, not capital punishment. That’s not her usual style, not for a crime of this magnitude, but she blames it on the fact that the hour really is late, and she’s had a stressful day. Perhaps she can think up what to do with him in the morning, when her mind is sharp and she’s not so shaken over seeing him again.


	2. An Audience with Her Majesty

Evil, he thinks, is a bit of an understatement.

She’s a cruel, conceited maniac, and the fact that Queen Regina’s got brains _and_ a temper to pair with that deranged, pretty little head of hers is well, frightening as fuck.

At first glance, that’s not the impression she gives, for her appearance isn’t exactly imposing. The Queen is a few years younger than him, rather pint-sized in stature, and while she’s certainly fair enough to lure even the most devout monk from his vows, make no mistake - the woman is the epitome of _disaster_ with a capital D, and Robin wants nothing to do with her.

Which is why it’s such a damn disappointment when her guards seize him on his way out of the bloody castle. He knows he’s in for it the second those black-cloaked bastards get their hands on him, and when he’s unable to bring them all down, he knows he’s fucked. He’s heard the horror stories of the few prisoners that’ve survived her wrath, and he’s aware that his plans have all gone to hell much too quickly, well before he had time to signal for help, and _fuck_ , he’d intended to avoid the witch entirely - not get murdered straight off.

 _Christ_. What a cock-up.

He’s shocked when he survives their first encounter; his thumbs are a bit worse for wear the next day for it, but he manages to slip out of the dungeons after that easily enough. The daytime guards belong to the King, they’re buffoonish and unsuspecting in their gaudy periwinkle and gold uniforms, and they’re pathetic when compared to the Queen’s onyx-garbed fighters - most of whom have at least half a brain and can slink in and out of the shadows almost as well as he does.

They're the ones who keep apprehending him, who keep dragging him back to Her Majesty almost every time he sneaks back into the castle now, and gods, the creepy blighters are irritating the living _fuck_ out of him.

He’s not sure why the Queen hasn’t killed him yet, but he figures it’s some sick game she’s playing when by the third time she catches him she doesn’t immediately chop his head off. He’s seen her do it, has watched in the town square as she’s had men and women run through for far less than what he’s done, so he knows she’s up to something, that she’s fucking with him. If he cared, he’d wonder what it was about him that keeps saving his neck - but he doesn’t care, or rather, _he can’t_ \- he’s got far too many other concerns at the moment.

See, he vowed an oath to deliver justice, and regardless of the obstacles in his path, he _must_ see it through. So while most people would have cut and run after the first time they’d escaped the Evil Queen’s merciless grasp, would have let their fear of her drive them away for good, it’s only made Robin’s resolve stronger. He isn’t like other men, isn’t frightened of her, for he’s seen that her weapon of choice is torture, and to this he is no stranger. He’s lived through his fair share of it, has experienced the bite of the lash and the prod of the hot iron enough times to know what he’s getting into. His hide is good and scarred, he’s had his limits tested, and he already knows how strong he is, knows what will break him and what won’t. So the way he figures it, he’s either going to have to get better at evading her guards or buck up and endure the pain that comes along with getting captured. Quitting is out of the question and failing at his task is simply not an option.

It’s death or success, plain and simple.

Besides, he’s starting to get a kick out of meeting with the Queen in her private quarters. Her vicious reputation aside, she’s still bloody-fucking-stunning, even if she is bat-shit bonkers, and he can’t seem to help himself from flirting with her. It’s almost like a reflex, an instinctive need to charm her knickers off whenever she’s in his eyeline. He’d stop if she seemed like she was uncomfortable with it, but he swears he’s seen her blush a time or two in response to his advances, and though she’s never so much as cast him a less than distasteful glance, he’s certain she’d have killed him straight-off if she didn’t find _something_ about their interactions to her liking.

Perhaps she remembers how much she liked their _first_ interaction - the one from a couple of years ago. Maybe she recalls some of his _other talents,_ how he made her back arch and her stomach quiver, how he made her hands twist so tightly in the silk sheets while she bit back those quiet moans - and she's hoping for a repeat experience.

The images of that night are burned into his mind, are by far the most erotic experience of his life, and he knows _he_ certainly wouldn't mind taking a stroll down memory lane with her. Next time she catches him, perhaps he'll suggest it.

* * *

He’s annoying.

_Infuriating._

But somehow, still alive.

That’s not to say she isn’t living up to her evil namesake, or that she hasn’t followed through on her threats, for she most certainly has. The problem is that the Thief keeps escaping from her dungeon - which is a feat in itself - but even more irritating (and perhaps more _startling_ too), is that when he inevitably gets caught, she keeps letting him live.

Oh, she punishes him severely each time - she wasn’t kidding about having him strung up by his thumbs, she’s surprised he’s able to use his hands at all after that, actually, and that’s not even the worst she’s done. She’s had his feet bathed in hot oil, had him dunked in the river for hours upon end, even had him pulled on the rack until one shoulder had been dislocated. Yesterday she had personally delivered him ten lashes with her favorite horsewhip - two strikes for each time he’s broken out of her dungeon - but she’s forced to admit that she’s reached the point where she should probably just give up on this game.

It’s not that she wants to, or even that she’s out of ideas on how to punish him further - no, her demented mind is ripe with ideas on how to cause him pain - it’s because after all of that, he _still_ hasn’t quite lost that devil-may-care glint of mischief in his eye, and she is smart enough to recognize that if she keeps going at him like this, sooner rather than later she’ll render him a complete invalid, and with that muscular, beautiful body he has, oh, it would be a sorry sight indeed.

She’d much rather kill him than witness him flopping around on her floor like a fish. The thought in itself is just… unsavory.

Common sense tells her that she should get it over with and kill him, that she should get on with her pointless life and stop toying with this idiot of a man. He’s nothing to her, nothing but a faded, half-formed memory made of liquid heat, desperation-laced lust and heart-pounding confusion that she swears she must have dreamed. But every time she starts to sentence him to capital punishment he shoots her that damned smirk, like he remembers _exactly_ what they did - what _he_ did - like he has her all figured out, like maybe he wants to do it again, and then this ache ignites between her thighs and she just… hesitates.

She’s uncomfortable with the way he’s _always_ looking at her, with the way the corners of his eyes scrunch as he rakes his blue gaze over her - blatantly staring at her eyes, her lips, the curve of her jaw and the length of her neck, but oddly enough, never her more alluring assets. Not once has she caught him outright ogling her breasts or her ass, which makes her even more uneasy, because that’s what he _should_ be staring at - it’s what every other man stares at - not her _face._ What sort of man stares into the accursed eyes of a nefarious, cold-blooded killer, a _monster_ such as she, and actually appears to like what he sees?

He must be some sort of freak.

She doesn’t like the way his chapped lips tip up at the corners in insolent amusement when she threatens him, almost as if he isn’t the least bit concerned of his fate. He acts as if he knows her, speaks to her like they’re old friends, converses in this cocky and infuriatingly flippant manner that no one else would dare attempt. She despises the way he’s so damned smug, how he’s constantly berating her with shameless flirtations that have her blushing bright red from her chest up to her ears no matter how many layers of powdered makeup she tries to conceal it with.

Her inability to simply get rid of him is obnoxious. It’s stupid. It’s obscene. Someone is bound to catch onto her strange behavior, and she had better come up with a better answer than, _He’s too pretty to destroy_ , before that happens. She just doesn’t have the slightest idea what that might be as of yet.

She’s started a new tradition with him too, where each time he’s recaptured, she has her most trusted and loyal Lieutenant, Brody, bring him to her chambers in order to allow the Thief a chance to confess his purpose for stealing from her. They both know he won’t - he’s never even come close to it and it’s really not about that.

It’s about the distraction.

Regina will never admit it, but she enjoys these interactions with the Thief. It takes her mind off some of the more vile aspects of so many of her nights, gives her fractured mind a welcome reprieve, and tonight it’s got her black heart racing, her eyes lighting up at every step she hears echoing down the long, desolate corridor that leads to her Queen’s chambers. Her fingers curl and uncurl at her sides in anticipation, her toes wiggle in her high-heels, and even though the hour is late, she can’t sit still. She hasn’t felt so alive and excited about an evening in _years._

Her Lieutenant brings him to her right on time and strips him bare before her. He’s too good of a pickpocket to leave clothed, the naughty boy - he nearly killed her guard with the man’s own blade on the second night they tried this, so now she has him stripped to avoid him hoarding any other trinkets up his sleeves. Brody forces the Thief to his knees, and she notes that it is a much easier task now than it was even the day before. His skin is filthy from his dungeon cell, and he is hobbled today, his feet terribly blistered, and though his arm has somehow been set in the socket, he's in obvious disrepair. But it doesn’t really matter - his current discomfort is no concern of hers.

“So…” she keeps her voice low, tips her chin up and looks down her nose at him. “Have you decided to confess, Thief? Or do you kneel before me tonight, hungry for another taste of my generous hospitality?”

She’s surprised when he flashes a grin that brings out his deep dimples, his straight white teeth making her cheeks heat, her heart flutter and her fingernails bite into her palms. She’s not supposed to react like this to him, (not supposed to react like this to anyone,) but for some reason she cannot seem to help it. He’s just… he’s so stupidly handsome.

“Your Majesty, a taste of your hospitality is much too tempting to pass up,” his eyes rise slowly, dragging up every inch of her until they finally connect with hers, and when he licks his lips, her stomach flips. “Though, it’s certainly not the only thing of yours I’d like to taste.”

Her Lieutenant splits his lip before she can react, though she would not have stopped him from striking the Thief anyway. His blood sprays across the slate-gray flagstone in a crimson spritz and rushes down his pale face and neck in rivulets to pool in the divots of his collarbones. She follows the trail of blood with narrowed eyes until she finds her gaze drawn a bit too far south - wandering the hard-cut curves of his pectorals, the smooth planes of his abdominals, the dip of his navel, _gods_ \- before she pulls her attention away. She doesn’t mean to stare, it’s just that he’s so aesthetically pleasing to look at, every angle smooth, curved and defined, so different from the pudgy, hairy, amorphous blob of her husband. Looking at the Thief has this strange effect on her, makes her tongue feel thick in her mouth, her saliva sticks in the back of her throat and her chest rises and falls too fast, presses hard against the confines of her corset as if it’s been laced two sizes too small.

An odd effect, indeed.

But the Thief’s flirtation with her was completely out of line - he deserved the correction and probably worse - which she is certain she would immediately order, if she wasn’t so attracted to him. As it were, she doesn’t want to see his handsome face bruised in any more places, and she doesn’t trust the imbecile to keep his battered mouth shut long enough in front of her guard to make that happen. So she’s forced to improvise.

She dismisses Brody, who looks _very_ reluctant to leave her alone with the criminal, but certainly knows better than to argue. He does, however, murmur a, "I'll be right outside if you need anything, Your Majesty," on his way out, to which she takes particular offense. She does not need a babysitter - she has enough eyes on her as it is. How dare he imply otherwise?

She curls her lip at the man in absolute annoyance and snarls, "Apparently I wasn't clear. If I find you, or any of my guards within one hundred feet of my chambers, I'll have your heads for handbags and your guts for garters, Sir Knight! Do you understand?!"

Brody’s dark brown eyes widen, but he nods dutifully, and with a flick of her wrist she barks nastily, "Now get out of my sight!"

She returns her attention to the Thief and with a few long strides, emphasized by the _clack, clack, clack_ of her heels across the stone, she makes her way back to him. He hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor, which pleases her, and she gets right up in his space, reaches out and grasps him firmly by the chin.

“My my, you’re making quite the mess,” she muses with a smirk, tilting his head left and right, her thumb stroking along his sticky, blood soaked stubble. “Perhaps I’ll have to punish you for it.”

He dares to smile and bring his pretty eyes up to hers, casting her a knowing look as he says, his voice deep and thick, “Whatever pleases Her Majesty.”

She does her best to ignore the way a shiver runs across the back of her neck and prays he doesn’t notice it.

“Tell me, Thief,” she keeps her tone sharp, accusatory, “Why do you return, time and again, for more of my punishments? Are they not enough for you? Have they somehow fallen short of the mark?”

The Queen releases his face and starts to circle him, her steps slow and measured, her eyes roaming all over him. He keeps his hands on his privates, but she has a good view of the rest of him, of the wear and tear that his body has endured over the past week or so - the bruises and burns, the scabs and blisters, the swollen flesh that presses awkwardly against over-stretched skin. She notes that he is in worse shape than he is letting on, and whatever she decides for his next punishment - she will have to be careful not to accidentally kill him.

“Your punishments are divine, Your Majesty,” he replies, his words a bit mumbled from the bruised state of his lips. “Any inadequacies most certainly fall on me.”

“Do you expect your pathetic flirtations to win my favor?” Her voice is low and raspy, she is annoyed but also a bit curious. He is an enigma to her, and in all honesty, she doesn’t detest his coquetting - no, she doesn’t mind it at all, actually.

“Well that depends, is it working?” She can hear his grin before she circles around and sees his blood-coated teeth shining at her, and she has to fight a smile of her own.

Cocky bastard.

“Of course not,” she lies with mock irritation, then she produces a small dagger from a hidden pocket of her skirt and adds, “In fact, I’ve grown quite bored with you.”

He is not shackled, and it’s a risk to bring a pointy object so near him when she’s seen first hand what he can do with one, but she’s not concerned. If he wanted to kill her, he’s had ample opportunities to try, and the fact that he hasn’t so much as raised a finger in her direction supports her theory. He’s far too clever and much too skilled at slinking in and out of her dungeon to have left her alone if she was his target, so she’s almost certain he’s after something else.

So, she wants to test him, to see if he will cower when she comes at him with the knife or if he’ll try to take it from her. She wants to see what he’ll do to defend himself in the face of the Evil Queen when there is no one to bear witness, to see what’s underneath that brash attitude and flippant smirk when she pushes him just a bit too far.

Will he be just like every other man - selfish, bullish and insipidly predictable?

Or is he something more?

When she brandishes the weapon at him, when she grabs him by the hair and presses the sharp edge to his throat hard enough to break the skin, he doesn’t shy away, doesn’t try to defend himself, and doesn’t even act as if he’s at all worried about her cutting his throat. In fact, he has the gall to chuff out a small, amused laugh that immediately makes her temper fly straight through the roof, but then he tips his head to the side, licks his lips and gives her this _look,_ like he’s just daring her to do it, and once again, _she fucking hesitates._

Normally she wouldn’t give it a second thought - he’s a trespassing bandit, a thief, and god-knows-what-else, and with any other person she’d be content to expunge his criminal existence from the earth. It’s just that he's so bold, so pretty, and so - dare she say… _interesting_ \- and it seems like such a waste to give him back to the earth so soon. The Thief swallows against the press of the knife but doesn’t complain, doesn’t even attempt to fight her, just stares up at her with those gorgeous dimples carving out his cheeks, and as she looks curiously down into his face, a new idea comes to her.

No, she’ll not waste the genuine distraction of this man. On the contrary, instead of hiding him away, she’s going to put him to use, is going to put him where she can see a little more of him, and oh, how easy, and how very entertaining, this new form of punishment shall be.

“Get up,” she snaps, watching with amusement as he struggles to his feet, obviously in pain but doing a grand job at hiding it. When he is standing before her, she approaches him, drags the tip of the dagger through the blood still running down his neck and proceeds to draw little scrolling patterns out across his collarbones, then down over the broad muscles of his chest.

Gods, he’s muscular.

He stands very still for her, but he’s breathing rapidly, and there is a flush coloring his neck and chest, a sure sign of the pain he is in. His eyes have turned suspicious, his brow pinched, and she wonders if he thinks she will kill him now.

Silly, silly Thief.

She drags the dagger down further, traces his ribs, prodding between them, teasing him, dips into each line of his abs and lower still, to run each side of the vee that leads to where his hands are neatly folded in front of him. His breath catches and Regina raises an eyebrow, looks up to see him staring right at her - _such_ insolence - so to teach him a lesson in manners she presses the edge of the blade to his obliques and cuts a slow, albeit shallow, laceration across him from hip to navel.

He hisses in pain but otherwise does not react - does not stop looking at her either - and it irks her further. She bares her teeth at him and growls, “Have I granted you permission to look at me, peasant?”

The Thief chuckles, ducks his head to hold her gaze - bringing them nearly nose to nose when he rasps, “You say that as if I might be tempted to look elsewhere, when it’s not even within the realm of possibilities when you’re in the room, Your Majesty.”

Fucking flatterer.

It’s working though, and now there's that ache that’s starting between her thighs, that warm throbbing that she gets whenever she thinks about those few precious minutes that she spent with him. And oh - _gods_ \- here comes another one of those hot, tingling waves of attraction in her belly too, and - _fuck -_ now she’s licking her thick, red-painted lips and thinking about what his swollen, split ones might feel like pressed against hers, how the short stubble of his beard might pleasantly scrape against the tip of her tongue, along the edge of her jaw, down the sensitive length of her neck. Her breath is rushing out much too quickly, her eyes are narrowed defiantly but gods, if he were to lean forward, she’s not sure if she’d stop him or not. He reeks of blood and his mouth and chin are covered in it but somehow, even that’s not putting her off.

_Shit._

She’s supposed to be punishing him. Not falling victim to his pauper’s charms.

With an eye roll she haphazardly tosses the dagger across the room and then sets about his punishment, blaming her lack of inhibitions on fatigue - the hour is late and she has wasted enough time, so she best get on with it. Besides, she wants to revel in his shock, to laugh at the dumb look on his face when he realizes what she’s decided for him - gods, he’s going to be so, so angry.

Regina crosses the room and pours two glasses of red wine, then settles herself back on her red velvet chaise and takes a moment to look the Thief up and down. He’s a mess, all covered in blood like that. Disgusting.

“Care for a drink?” she asks, then nods to the glass still on the bar.

The Thief looks utterly confused by her generosity, and she raises her brows in expectation. “Have you no appreciation for the magnanimity of your Queen? I’ll have you know that contrary to the rumors, Leopold is not the _only_ kind Royal to reside within these castle walls.”

He frowns, then limps forward, accepts the wine and takes a small drink. As Regina watches him swallow the first mouthful with suspicion clearly written on his features, she has to work hard not to grin.

“Finish it,” she commands, an eyebrow arched high.

His frown deepens, but she holds his eyes and he does as he’s told, downs the rest of the red liquid, and all she can think is, _oh, this is much too amusing._

“Good?” she asks, unable to stop her smirk.

“Delicious,” he sets down his glass, then leans heavily against the marble bar top in an attempt to take the weight off his blistered feet. Regina can’t quite stop herself from snorting derisively to let him know she is aware of what he’s doing, but he shrugs and says nothing more in response.

A few seconds pass, and - there it is - from across the room, the Thief catches her eyes and in a clipped, rather deflated tone, he murmurs, “I… I’m afraid I don’t feel… quite right.”

Regina laughs.

“Of course you don’t,” she smiles broadly and tells him, “I’ve just given you the first part of a healing potion.”

“A… a healing potion?” he asks, then adds, “What do you mean, the _first_ part?” He’s extremely pale, his eyes red-rimmed and watering now as he stumbles a little and recenters himself against the marble countertop.

“Mmm,” she nods, “You know, potions are such a funny thing. If you take the second part, you’ll be as good as new,” she produces a small vial and grasps it carefully between two fingers, inverts it and studies it carefully, “but if you don’t, you’ll be permanently paralyzed within minutes.”

And there, after weeks of torture, she has _finally_ managed to create fear in the Thief’s eyes.

“What do you want?” he asks, “For the second part, what is it you want me to do?”

“Oh, it’s really not too difficult,” she purrs, sips her wine and looks up at him through her lashes. “Ask me to be kind, to be like my husband. _Beg it_ of me, and perhaps I’ll consider giving it to you.”

His face is twisted in anxiety now, there is no longer a hint of mischief anywhere, and when he fails to speak, she laughs loudly at his stubbornness.

“And if I can’t convince you, I’ll be paralyzed?” he chokes out.

Regina tips her head and clarifies, “That’s right, you’ll become completely immobile, frozen in time with no escape from death. That’s certainly not much of a life now, is it?”

The Thief grimaces, his gaze flickers around the room and she wonders if he’ll actually be able to decide with enough time left to take the second part of the potion. It’ll be such a shame if he does not.

He’s obviously conflicted, is fighting with his pride or morals or whatever is in his head that she cannot pretend to know. He scowls and runs a shaking hand over his face, obviously annoyed that she’s gotten the better of him, and she grins.

“Time to decide is running short,” she goads, “Tick-tock.”

“Surely Her Majesty has more important things to do with her energy than to waste it playing games with a petty thief,” he switches tactics and tries to smile, tips his head and studies her as he sways on his feet, clutching desperately at the countertop.

“Surely you don’t presume to tell a Queen what to do?” she sits up straighter, temper rising, “Surely you aren’t _that_ stupid.”

“I wouldn’t–” his knees buckle and he just barely catches himself. He looks deliciously frightened, and when he rights himself, she can see that his entire body is trembling, “--wouldn’t dream of telling my Queen what to do.”

He shakes his head, takes a few deep breaths, and wait, no - _no_ _damnit! -_ there’s that fucking smirk again. “But neither would I want her to be unnecessarily taxed on my behalf.”

Regina laughs derisively. “Typical man,” she scolds, takes another sip of wine and curls her lip at him, “To assume that because I am a woman, I am weak.” She glances away and scowls at nothing in particular, “That the smallest affair must thoroughly exhaust me.”

She’s starting to get angry, and even worse, _nervous_ now. He’s irritating the life out of her because damnit, he’s _still_ not begging for the potion, and if he wants to be more than a potato for the rest of his life, he’s running out of time to decide.

Why won’t he just beg her for it already?

He’s watching her though, just as closely as she’s been watching him, and when she purses her lips in annoyance, for some reason that prompts him to glance heavenward, and in the next instant a look of sheer determination comes over his features. Then he’s straightening his spine, and she watches with surprise when he somehow manages to pull himself to his full height.

For a moment, she admires his build, drinks in the long, lean lines of his legs, the thick muscles of his calves and thighs. He’s not exceptionally tall, but he’s taller than her husband by quite a bit, and without heels on she thinks she’ll have to crane her neck to look up into his eyes. It is obvious that he does some sort of physical labor in whatever occupation (aside from theft) puts coin in his pockets - he is too built, his chest, arms and legs too bulky, the lines of his body too visible when he simply stands still for him to be idle. In fact, she is certain that it is all that muscle that enables him, on jittering legs that look like they will give out at any second, to slowly make his way over to her, where he settles on his knees at the side of her chaise.

“I do not presume to know what might exhaust you,” he rasps, his voice low and full of gravel, “But I do know that you are _anything_ but weak.”

He holds her gaze for a long, steady beat, and she can’t help but notice his eyes are _so_ blue, _beautiful,_ crystalline and brilliant like the sea, and he stares into her dark and demented ones like he’s not afraid of death, like he’s not afraid of her, not afraid of anything at all in this realm. She’s caught up in him, in studying the individual flecks in his irises when he boldly reaches out and - slow, slow, slowly - as if he has all the time in the world, takes the little vial of purple shimmering liquid right out of her hand.

She’s stunned - or at least that’s what she tells herself - when she sits still and _lets him_ do it, when instead of stealing it back, she simply watches him wiggle out the small cork, put the bottle to his chapped lips, and drink the second part of the potion without uttering so much as a _Please._

Perhaps he has bewitched her.

She has no other explanation for the way she stares at the muscles of his throat as he swallows down the potion. She has no excuse for why her own mouth is watering, for why her lips feel dry and her cheeks feel flushed.

When he’s finished with it, he immediately looks better - the color returns to his skin, his bruises, scrapes and burns heal, the swelling goes down, his split lip stitches itself back together, and he sighs with relief. The sound is quiet, soft and not at all unpleasant, just enough to pull her attention from his eyes to his mouth, but when she catches sight of all the dried blood still clinging to his chin and neck, it snaps her out of whatever strange state of inaction she had slipped into.

He’s just gotten the better of her - they both know it - she has absolutely no idea how he managed it and she feels stupid, embarrassed and for some reason, frustratingly aroused.

“You don’t know anything,” she growls, standing quickly and stalking to the other side of the room, leaving him on his knees by her chaise. “You would do well to remember that.”

Not knowing what else to do, Regina calls for her guards - Brody is right down the hallway, damn him - and she gives the order to have the Thief dragged back down to the dungeon for the night.

While her guards shackle him, she hears his rather cheeky sounding, “Oh, I certainly remember, Your Majesty - _every_ detail,” and she catches the cocky way he smirks at her, the way he bites his lip when he’s hauled past. She tries not to, but she flushes hot in some foolish response, and she’s too flustered to come up with anything clever to say - she certainly can’t combat his inappropriate remark in front of her guards. So instead, she simply rolls her eyes at him and promises to see him in the morning for a new type of punishment.

Physical pain may no longer be an effective option for torturing him, but the Evil Queen has plenty of other ways of getting under his skin.


	3. Decisions, Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - Gore, Torture, Violence.

“Left, or right?” The Queen's voice is rough and rasping, slithering like a snake, and it makes a cold chill race down his spine.

Robin studies the man on the left, then the one on the right, then cocks his head to the side and brings his gaze back to the Queen.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you’re asking, Your Majesty,” he studies her intently, notices the way she has purposely frozen her features, how she’s not giving him any hint of what she wants him to do. It’s a game then, he decides - she’s dragged him into another one of her demented challenges - and he doubts there’s a correct answer anyway.

“Surely a clever man like you can tell his left from his right,” she purrs, standing from her throne and slowly making her way down the stone steps that lead to where two peasants are kneeling before her. Their hands are bound tightly behind them, gags lodged securely in their mouths; they’re grown men but both are whimpering like babies, physically trembling with fear as she nears them.

Robin fights the urge to roll his eyes. Bloody cowards.

The Queen circles the peasants, her form-fitting, royal blue gown trailing behind her as she looks down her nose at the simpering fools. There are bright white diamonds accentuating the alluring neckline of her dress, the glittering jewels flash brilliantly in the last rays of the hot evening sunlight that streams in from the westward windows, and though he should take interest in the gems, instead, Robin finds himself constantly fighting the urge to stare at the swells of her breasts. Typically he’s not so easily distracted by feminine wiles - he’s been burned before and learned to avoid such obviously set traps - but today he has to admit that he’s honestly not sure which assets, hers, or that of the dress, that he admires more.

Her thick black hair is up, curled tendrils twisted back and off her elegant neck, her long bangs side-swept and tucked behind her ear, giving her this soft, almost sweet look that is in direct contrast to the predatory way she’s prowling around the throne room. When she makes a full circle, he can see that there is malice in her eyes, and when she moves toward him, he swears he can feel the malcontent radiating from her, and he almost laughs at the juxtaposition she presents.

“Oh, I know the difference,” he smirks, raises his shackled hands and wiggles his fingers at her. “Though I’ll say I’m equally skilled with both, if that’s the concern you have.”

She curls her lip and narrows her eyes at him as if she is completely disgusted by his flirtation and explains, “These two men have had a dispute regarding ownership of a small parcel of land. Both swear the land belongs to them, however, since that is not possible, one is most certainly a liar, and will be executed for his dishonesty to the Crown.” The Queen pauses, gives him a sly grin and tells him, “You, Thief, get to decide who dies. Left, or right?”

Robin’s brows raise and he looks back to the men. “Which is the liar?” he asks.

She purses her lips and flashes her eyes in amusement. “Which indeed?”

He catches her giving him the side-eye, and he realizes that this was her plan all along. There is a dreadful feeling in his gut, and he knows without a doubt that even if she knows (she probably does, she’s as clever as they come) she is absolutely _not_ going to tell him which is the liar. Robin scowls - he hasn’t a clue how the fuck he is supposed to make this decision without any information, and he doesn’t care for her games. He wants to get on with his own plans, doesn’t care to decide who lives or dies and doesn’t give two shits about amusing this psychotic woman any longer.

She’s been making him do things like this for days, has been bringing him up from the dungeon and forcing him to participate in these little horrors of hers. He hasn’t had to determine guilt yet, hasn’t decided another man’s fate quite like this, but she’s been forcing him to watch her dole out punishments, has even made him participate a bit.

Oh yes, the Queen’s had quite a good time making him play along.

On one occasion she made him determine the number of lashes to be given to a young man who’d been caught in bed with his wife’s sister. It seemed simple enough and the crime didn’t seem all that bad - the man was young and the marriage an arranged, unhappy one anyway - but when Robin had suggested five strikes, the Queen had frowned and sentenced the man to twenty - five as Robin suggested, ten for Robin’s “lack of judgement,” and another five for “wasting her time.” The poor lad had barely made it out of the castle with his hide still intact, and Robin has no doubt that should he cross paths with him in the future, the other man will surely have a grudge to repay.

There was another judgment he can’t help but feel he fucked up - a case where she made him decide how many fingers a young woman should lose for stealing a loaf of bread from the local baker. He’d fought for the least severe sentence possible - the woman was obviously starving and by all accounts the bread had been stale anyway - but in the end the woman had ended up losing _two_ fingers to the Queen’s ire. One for her own thievery, and one “as payment for whatever it is this Thief is planning to steal from me.” When he closes his eyes, he can still hear the woman’s terrified screams.

Yesterday had been the day for capital punishments, and the Queen had him dragged up from the dungeon so he could personally decide the weaponry to be used in each individual execution. To make matters worse, she’d made him sit next to her - chained to the floor by his neck like a hound - so he could explain his choices. She’d been exceedingly interested in hearing all about why he’d opt for an axe over a sword, or a hail of arrows over a hanging, and since then Robin has only come to the conclusion that her mind is as sick and deranged as everyone claims it is. No one should be as enthralled with pain and death as the Queen of the Enchanted Forest seems to be. The woman wants to know every sordid element, doesn’t flinch at even the goriest of details and if he had to, he supposes he can only describe her as, well, a bit obsessed.

“Left.”

He doesn’t have a reason he chose the man on the left, he just doesn’t want to sit here like the Queen’s personal entertainment for the rest of the evening, and he feels like he knows her well enough by now to know that arguing with her about it isn’t going to get him any additional information. It’s more likely that drawing this out will land him in hot water - literally - so he might as well roll the dice and hope for the sake of the two men in front of him that he’s chosen correctly.

But the Queen just laughs.

“So certain?” she drawls, her finely arched brows raised high, thick red lips curled into an eerie smile that makes his blood run cold. “Tell me, Thief, how do you know this man is a dishonest one?”

Robin shrugs. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but you’ve just said it yourself. He's a man, so by nature, he’s dishonest. It doesn’t much matter to me what it’s about.”

She snaps her gaze to him and holds his eyes for so long that he’s almost certain he’s just cost himself his head, but then her brow creases, and for the first time in ages (since that one night when she let him do those _things_ he did), a flicker of uncertainty crosses her beautiful features.

Oh, it seems he’s hit a nerve.

And she’s, well now, he hates to admit it, but she’s sort of adorable when she’s confused, what with that pout on her full lips and that furrow between her brows. Robin has to fight back a smile, has to be careful not to give away how he almost just found her to be _endearing_ , and he wonders just how many layers there are to the Queen.

“You have a point, Thief, and for once, it’s a good one.” She frowns, and with a flick of her fingers, her Executioner steps forward.

She’s still looking at Robin when she motions to the two peasants on their knees and gives her orders to the man with the double-sided axe.

“Put these men on the wheel and mount them as scarecrows in the pathetic little field they were arguing over,” she pauses and searches Robin’s eyes, but for what, he’s not sure. “The property in question is to be reclaimed by the Crown,” she continues, her voice low, eyes narrowed. “These two shall serve as a reminder that the citizens of the Enchanted Forest are fortunate enough to live under the rule of the _Kind King_ , and these are _His_ lands. Further disputes regarding “ownership” would do well to heed this warning.”

She looks thoughtfully at Robin for a few more seconds, and he quirks up one eyebrow, impressed with her reasoning. She really is quite clever, even if she is barking mad, and he can’t fault her display of power. His eyes widen with surprise when she almost - no, it can’t be - she _almost_ smiles at him, but she seems to catch herself and frowns, then casts an exceptionally dirty look at him and storms quickly out of the room.

In short order, the two peasants are dragged off by the Executioner to a horrendously cruel fate, and Robin is hauled back down to the dungeon by the Queen's guards. He feels a bit bad about the part he played in what awaits the two men - to be bent and broken on the wheel, then fed to the crows is the harshest punishment he’s ever heard the Queen give. But at the same time, he has to admit that he also has a tiny spark of accomplishment bouncing around in his belly, because all the torture and talk of death aside, he swears when she looked at him just now, he almost got a reaction out of her that was _nearly_ human, and he was honestly starting to think that wasn’t possible.

Perhaps she’s not quite as unhinged as she’d like everyone to believe.

* * *

Robin learns quickly that he’s made quite a mistake though - that by earning some modicum of the Queen's favor, he’s somehow managed to get himself into further trouble because she starts having him watched almost constantly, making any sort of communication with his gang extraordinarily difficult, and chances of escape nearly impossible. It seems she’s taken something of an interest in keeping his company, and he’s made aware of this when he’s dragged out of his cell by her Lieutenant the very next day. The guard roughly pushes and pulls him along several long corridors, until the next thing he knows he’s being shoved into a bath of soapy warm water while a very nervous looking barber stands in the corner, holding to his straight razor and shears like a lifeline, with an expression that can only be described as, well, mortified.

When he’s all cleaned up, he’s once again brought before the Queen in her chambers. Like always, her guard shoves him to his knees with so much force he’s honestly a bit concerned he’s cracked his patella’s - he’s not a teenager anymore, for fuck’s sake - but in a new twist, he gets to keep his clothes on, which consists of a pair of plain trousers, a short-sleeved cotton shirt, even a pair of worn, soft-soled shoes, all in the Queen’s preferred color, black. He supposes the change should bring him comfort, but instead it makes him much more nervous, because he knows she’s got some new fucked-up game she’s going to play with him. She never does anything without a purpose - and he’s really, honestly, getting tired of all this foolishness.

He’s about to tell her that, has decided that since he can’t seem to escape her clutches, he might as well goad her into lopping off his head, when she enters the sitting room from her bedchamber, and all the blood rushes out of his head and down, down, down, into parts of him that are suddenly _very_ interested in staying alive. He swallows thickly and chides himself for being so easily persuaded - he’s _swears_ he's not always such a fool - but as his eyes run up and down the length of her, his dick legitimately twitches with desire, and all he can think is, _Christ,_ she’s stunning, _ravishing_ , positively tantalizing dressed like that. He'd have to be dead not to want her.

In contrast to her usual ornate gowns, tonight she's simply in a robe, black as night in color and made of silk, long and cinched at her small waist, with a deep vee neckline that shows off a good bit of her chest and makes him fantasize about what she may (or may not) have on beneath. Her typical ample cleavage is noticeably lacking - from what he can see, her tits still look incredible, but he’s pretty sure she hasn’t got a corset on, which makes him wonder if she's got _anything on, Christ_ \- and when his eyes trail down the length of her shapely legs, he discovers that instead of high heels, she’s even got soft black slippers on her feet. There’s just something about this - about her complete lack of formal attire that makes his foolish heart flutter against his ribs, that makes his breath hitch a bit, makes him fantasize about tugging open the knot on her robe and running his hands over her; about feeling her heat against his palms through all that smooth, rich silk. He’d wager every coin he’s ever nicked in his whole life that she’s hot enough to burn him.

Her hair is without its usual intricate styling this evening too, the thick onyx tresses are instead hanging down in long waves, curling at the ends and falling prettily in her eyes. Amused, he catches a hint of irritation in her expression when she raises one delicate hand to card through it, quickly brushing a few unruly strands off her forehead, and he notices her fingernails are painted black to match her robe. She appears to be bare of makeup, except that she’s got a glossy shine to her thick lips that makes him want to lick them, to suck on them, to nibble and just-bloody-bite them so he can see if whatever kind of balm she’s applied has a flavor to it, or if her lips taste delicious on their own. Oh, what he'd _give_ to find out.

Robin has always thought the Queen was more than beautiful, he's always been staggered by her beauty, but he's got to admit that there’s something extra special - something sexy as _hell_ \- about the way she is tonight, about how she is presenting herself so casually but is still so put together. _Gods,_ he wants her.

When she slips past him, he gets a whiff of her perfume, and he has no right to be, but he's pleased to find that, just like he remembers, she still smells of exotic roses. His mind flashes back to that _other_ occasion he was fortunate enough to spend in her company, of that time when he _really_ got up close with her, and he closes his eyes. It’s been two years, but he swears he can vividly recall the softness of her skin, the way her scent was all around him, can still hear the quiet, desperate moans she made, can still taste the sweetness of her body on his tongue.

His mouth is watering for her even now - eager for more, it seems - and these blasted trousers are suddenly too tight, pressing hard across his groin, not that he has any intention of ever satisfying _that_ urge with her. No, he’s seen first-hand the way that fucking bastard of a husband treats her, he has personally witnessed some of her mistreatment, and he wouldn’t dare touch her with ambitions for his own desire. Evil or not, she’s still a woman, still a _person_ , and Robin would never lay a finger on her that he wasn’t absolutely certain was welcome.

“Ah, thank you Brody, that will be all.” She dismisses her guard with a nod, and her dark brown eyes follow him all the way to her door, before she turns her focus to Robin.

She looks solemn, seems to be in a bit of a mood and he’s not sure he wants to know why. Her voice is quiet, her tone dry and _almost_ amused as she tells him, “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you without the stench of the forest clinging to you.”

She pours two glasses of wine and hands him one, but she does not invite him to rise from his spot on the floor. For a moment, he stares suspiciously into his drink, wondering what sort of nightmare he might endure this time, but when she takes the initiative to reassure him that it’s _just_ wine, a cute little smile still playing on her lips, he simply shrugs and goes with it. He figures she'll get her way anyway, no use in denying her.

She seems pleased that he believes her, and doesn’t even try to hide the way she rakes her eyes over him. Then she makes this low, _mmm_ , in the back of her throat, tips her head to the side and adds, “Black looks good on you, Thief.”

“Better than my usual attire?" he flashes her his best, most winsome smile, trying to lighten things up.

She surprises him when she laughs, ducks her head and gives him an almost playful, contemplative look. “I suppose both have their merits,” she sips her wine, “But you may have noticed I have an affinity for black.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, it suits you,” he takes a cautious sip of his own drink and as the flavorful bouquet of black cherry, soft-tannins, and chocolate hit his tongue, he nearly moans with how good it tastes. Robin hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks but regardless, he’s certain this is the best wine he’s had in his entire shoddy life.

“Is that right?” Her voice is low as she moves to her chaise and gets comfortable, lounging against the high backrest with her gorgeous, toned legs stretched out before her, one crossed over the other and peeking out through the gap in her robe, which he's certain is just to tease him. He follows her movements and when he nods his agreement, she raises her brows and asks, “Why? Because it’s the color of my heart?”

Robin tips his head to the side and studies her for a moment. She wants a serious answer to her question, he can tell from the way she’s holding his gaze, from the intensity of her stare, that she’s actually interested in his opinion. He’s fortunate in that he feels like he can read her quite well, thankful that he’s spent nearly three years letting himself in and out of the castle, learning every inch of the place as he meticulously worked out his plans. He’s learned all sorts of information through the years, knows something about just about everyone at this point, and that includes her. He's observed her, learned her habits, studied her tells (the few of them she has) - but he truly never expected to come into such close contact with the Queen again. His purpose has never been to get to _her_ , but he’s glad now that he paid attention to the little details when he did happen to cross her path - it’s likely to save his life now.

“Well, it’s my understanding that a painter must mix many colors together to create what someone else might simply call _black_ ,” he bites his lip and gives her a little smile. “The complexity seems appropriate.”

She sits very still for a moment, but then her dark eyes flicker away from him, the edges of her jaw unclench, and an upward tilt plays at the corners of her lips. The tension in the air starts to dissipate, and while he takes another sip of his wine, Robin cautiously gives himself a victory point.

“There you go, waxing poetic again when I’ve asked you a simple question,” she gripes, but there’s a pink tint to her cheeks now, and oh, he has to fight hard not to smile at the fact that yet again, he’s succeeded in making her blush.

“It is difficult not to speak in poetry when I’ve such inspiration before me,” he flirts, then can’t quite help his curiosity, “Do my compliments really offend you?”

She immediately replies with a clipped, “Everything about you offends me,” but there is no heat in her tone, no anger in her expression, and it doesn’t escape him that she really didn’t answer his question. In fact, she’s not even looking at him now, she’s pointedly examining her perfect fingernails, and from the sudden appearance of these lovely little fine lines stemming from the corners of her eyes and bracketing the edges of her mouth, he has a hunch that she’s trying to hide a smile.

 _Complicated_ , he thinks, doesn’t even scratch the surface of what this woman is.

* * *

The Thief downs the rest of the wine in his glass, gives it an appreciative nod, then confidently, however slowly, oh so slowly, he rises to his feet. Regina hears his knees crack, and when he rolls his eyes at himself, she very nearly loses her inner battle and smiles. She should not allow him to get up - she has not granted him permission to, hasn’t given him permission for _anything_ \- but she just doesn’t have the fight in her tonight. Her mother will be here tomorrow for a month-long visit, and Cora’s visits _always_ mean dreadful things are headed Regina’s way, so this idiot Thief is the least of her worries.

When she doesn’t immediately reprimand him, he is clearly surprised. His brow furrows, he bites down on his delectable bottom lip, but nevertheless, he boldly continues over to the bar beside her chaise, where he deposits his glass upon the white marble with a soft _clink_.

“You know, with the way you continue to go traipsing around my castle in the casual way you do, I can never quite decide if you’re brave or just plain reckless.” She looks up at him and finishes her own glass of wine, then hands it to him, which he takes, and without asking, refills. She’s pleased by his actions, is treating herself with a rare bottle of her absolute favorite merlot, a hundred-year-old vintage for which she has full intentions of finishing tonight.

“Can’t it be both?” he grins, and when she waves her hand at the chair across from her, indicating he take a seat, he does so, though he looks extremely mistrustful about it. He eases carefully back into it like it’s a spring-loaded trap, like it might swallow him up at any second, and it almost makes her laugh.

He may not be afraid of her, but he sure as _hell_ doesn’t trust her.

Good.

“So what are you, courageously reckless?” she challenges, “Or recklessly courageous?”

“Definitely the former.”

She arches a brow. “I might have guessed.”

She shifts against the chaise so she’s leaned a little more comfortably to one side, her elbow resting on the backrest and her head propped on her hand, her legs tucked under her, then gets a little twist low in her stomach when she catches the Thief’s eyes dropping to the neckline of her robe. She guesses that from this new angle that he might be able to see a bit of the fire-red lace of her nightdress, and when his fingers scrunch and release a few times against the fabric of his trousers, she wonders if he ever thinks about touching her like a man might touch his wife, if he thinks about that night he _did_ touch her, and if he’d ever consider doing it again.

_If only._

“So, Thief,” the Queen drawls, dragging her gaze slowly around the room, deliberately avoiding him, not wanting to look at him lest he figure her out before she’s able to push the conversation where she wants - no, _needs_ it to go. As such, her eyes are studying the scrolling accents in the dark mahogany of her writing desk when she finally continues, “I would imagine that someone like you has quite a few tales to tell, hmm?”

From the corner of her eye, she sees his head tilt, which is followed by a perplexed sounding, “Someone like me?”

“Yes,” she flips her hand in his general direction as if she’s barely paying him any attention, “An outlaw, a miscreant - whatever it is you call yourself.”

He chuckles softly and supplies, “You give me too much credit, Your Majesty.”

She sighs a bit dramatically, “So it would seem.”

A beat of silence passes between them, and there’s a sinking feeling in her chest. She knows he has interesting things to say, that he _must_ have broken into somewhere other than her castle over the years. He was a free man up until the moment she captured him, and though she knows he’s broken in before, he’s far too talented at his trade for this to have been his only target.

“Come now,” she urges, still not looking at him, _gods_ this is embarrassing. “Surely you have a story or two that you regale the other criminals with after a few rounds at your local alehouse.”

He sounds rather confused. “Uhm, not… particularly. Nothing a Queen would find of any interest, I can assure you.”

And that’s perfect, the exact opening she was looking for. She keeps her voice low and sincere, brings her eyes to his and informs him, “I’ll be the judge of that.”

As she watches, the Thief runs his hand through his hair, then he shakes his head and with a soft chuckle he asks, “You really want me to tell you a story?”

She fights a flush, feeling shameful for needing this distraction, for needing anything at all. “Do I strike you as someone who wastes her own time? Someone who makes a habit of demanding things that I have no use for?” She doesn’t even try to hide the annoyance and frustration that bleeds into her voice before she answers her own question. “I think not.”

He looks lost for a moment, and maybe a bit stunned, but then he sits back in his chair, and with an, “Alright then,” he launches into an amusing tale about a time when, as a younger man, he employed the use of a rooster, a pair of toddler’s breaches, and a well-aimed slingshot to steal an entire kilderkin of ale from the local pub.

He’s a good storyteller, and though at the beginning of the evening she wasn’t sure this would work, she’s glad she did it now. He’s been in her room for about an hour, and it’s been nearly as long since she’s thought about her mother’s visit. She’s grateful for the mental reprieve; the pounding in her temples has lessened, the burning behind her eyes has all but stopped, and it certainly doesn’t hurt to have the Thief’s handsome face to look upon while he smiles and chuckles at his past misdeeds, all while carefully avoiding any information that might give away who he really is, or what little town in her kingdom that he’s actually from.

He’s smarter than most, she’ll give him that. She’d prefer if he was afraid of her - she never can seem to put that gleam of terror in his eyes - but he does tend to give her the appropriate level of respect, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like when he flirts with her. His attention makes her feel young, it makes her reminisce about simpler times when she didn’t know she would come to call this stone prison her home, when she was naive enough to think she had a life to look forward to, when she had an education, and parties, and stable boys to steal kisses from in the night.

But his company also makes her realize how many of her years have been wasted, how she’s spent nearly as much of her life stagnating in this hellish place as she did wilting under her mother’s thumb. She thinks about the shackles of her marriage, can feel the way her golden wedding band bites into her finger, and she must make some sort of face, because suddenly the Thief is smirking at her - gods, his straightforwardness is unsettling - and he's teasing, “Oh, come now, that story isn’t that bad, now is it?”

“No,” she shakes her head, and before she knows what she’s doing, she’s telling him, “It was fine, it was… exactly what I needed, actually.”

His voice is satisfied and casual when he tells her, “I’m happy to be of service, then,” but when she doesn’t reply, doesn’t even look at him, his tone deepens and he adds, “Is there, perhaps, another service I might provide to Her Majesty this evening?”

Tingly excitement sparks through her, and her eyes jump to his. He looks calm, open and approachable - not at all smug or flippant like she’s come to expect him to be. No, his expression now is serious but somehow, still welcoming, the blue of his eyes is vibrant as she stares into them, and it is ages - countless thundering heartbeats and uneven shaking breaths - before she remembers that he asked her a question and she should probably answer him.

“You can refill my glass.”

He smiles at her - god, those dimples are a _distraction_ \- and he immediately rises, takes her glass to the bar and pours the rest of the delicious red wine for her, then starts to hand it back. When their hands meet, however, she is completely confounded when he brings his other hand up to lightly caress the back of hers, carefully ghosting his fingers along her fine bones, sliding boldly up and up, all the way to her wrist. Regina just stares at his gentle movements, takes in his rough calluses, the scars and imperfections that speckle his skin, the short blunt nails and sparse hair. His fingers are thick and long, his hands much larger than hers, his wrists and forearms laden with corded muscle, and as his fingertips tenderly glide along her soft, freshly lotioned skin, the contrast is stark. His workman’s hands look nothing like hers, certainly look nothing like her husband’s - which are smooth and almost as well manicured as hers - and the difference in itself is nothing short of… incredibly alluring.

“Is this acceptable, Your Majesty?” he asks quietly after a few seconds, his sincere eyes locked on hers.

She hears herself breathe, “It is,” and feels like she’s having an out of body experience. She _knows_ that she should not encourage his behavior, but oh, his touch feels so enticing, and it is difficult to resist.

The Thief crouches down before her, shifts to his knees, and when he holds his hand out in a silent request to take her unoccupied one, she stupidly finds herself giving it to him.

She shouldn’t be doing any of this.

He takes her hand and simply rests it on his for a moment, palm to palm, as his other one traces over the back - thoroughly mapping out every line, groove, and curve with simply the tips of his fingers and the heat of his stare. The small clock across the room _ticks, ticks, ticks_ as the seconds pass - the only sound that dares interrupt the quietude of the room - but then a small smile forms on his lips and she’s dying to know his thoughts, is unable to stop herself from whispering, “What?”

Her heart is pounding, her cheeks are flushed, and the speed at which she’s now sipping her wine probably isn’t going to help anything, but there’s just something about him that makes her… yearn.

“I’ve no doubt you accomplished much with these hands today,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers over the tops of hers. “That you had many things that you finished, that you have taken care of, but I wonder…” He pauses to press a slow, soft kiss to her knuckles, and her breath catches in her throat. “When was the last time someone took care of _you_?”

She burns with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment, because the last time - the _only_ time - she ever felt truly “taken care of” was the night she spent a few brief moments with _him_. Regina feels her face heat, she scowls and tries to pull her hand from his, but he tightens his grip and presses his lips to her knuckles again, this time more firmly, almost _insistently_ , and her pulse flies into triple time.

He starts placing tiny, slow kisses along the back of her hand, and she’s stunned into inaction, so confused over how he’s able to touch her like no one else ever has, with this assertive gentleness that somehow convinces her to let him get away with it. She should kill him for touching her - he’s a scoundrel, nothing more than a trespassing rat - but _oh_ , his fingers are rubbing across her wrist now, and there is a sharp, stinging sensation starting in the bridge of her nose that runs up and makes her eyes water as if she might cry - _gods -_ and she can’t focus.

What the hell is wrong with her?

He doesn’t ask her his question about _when_ _she's been taken care of_ again though, doesn’t pressure her for her humiliating answer. Indeed, he seems to catch on that she’d rather die than tell him, because he starts to press his kisses down the length of each of her fingers, pausing when he reaches the tip of her middle one to ask, “Still alright?”

She nods, just once, using every ounce of concentration she has to battle the wetness that’s building in her eyes, hating herself for appearing weak, for her absolute inability to take control of the situation instead of sitting here like a simpering fool. She swallows down the last of her wine, but it doesn’t help, doesn’t numb her to the way his stubble rasps against her skin, the way his soft lips press and retreat along each finger at a snail’s pace. He takes the empty glass from her and sets it aside, and in the next instant he’s guiding her now free hand to curl over his shoulder, where he leaves it, choosing instead to direct his attention to her other hand once more.

This time he turns her hand over though, palm up and cradled between both of his, and somehow, she feels much more vulnerable this way. She can’t explain it, but with her hand open like this it feels like he’s somehow exposed her, like he has stripped away some invisible armor, and she has the urge to curl her fingers, to make a fist in defense. Briefly, she considers pulling away, but then he’s running his fingertips lightly across her palm, and the thought dissipates almost as quickly as it came to her. She twists the fingers of her other hand nervously in the cotton of his shirt - _this is so surreal_ \- accidentally brushes his skin when the fabric pulls too much and shifts the neckline over, and then - _shit_ \- she can’t… she just… she _can’t_ resist the heat of him. The next thing she knows, her entire hand is slipping underneath the fabric, curling around the crux of his shoulder to rest on his bare skin, absorbing the thrumming heat that positively pours off the muscled cords of his neck and into her shaking palm.

 _God_ , he feels good.

She stares at her hand on his neck, at the way her flawless skin lays against his sun-kissed, but then her attention is called back to her other hand, because - _oh hell_ \- his mouth is on her again. He’s pressing kisses to this side now, still gentle, still careful, but then he places a kiss to the very center of her palm, and she _knows_ she feels his tongue flick at her skin - light and quick - before he presses another kiss to the same spot. Awareness floods her, fire burns low in her belly and she licks her lips as she watches him. He continues his slow attention, acting innocent for a few more kisses, but then he sucks lightly on the very tip of her index finger, punctuating the action with a soft scrape of his teeth, and raw lust positively surges through her veins. She finds herself fighting the urge to press her thighs together - he is so close he will surely catch her at it, will know that he’s just made her core ache - but then he repeats the action on the tip of her middle finger, and she loses the battle with herself, gives in by shifting just enough to alleviate some of the warm tension that is building much too rapidly.

The Thief sees her do it, tips his lips up and the corners of his eyes scrunch as if he’s holding back the rest of his smile, but otherwise he doesn’t react. He sucks on the tip of her ring finger this time, then swirls his tongue around and around the sensitive pad before he lets go, and she swears her clit throbs in pure jealousy. She’s slick between her thighs for him now, can feel the moisture building, is embarrassingly worked up from just a few silly actions that she shouldn’t even blink an eye at. But gods, he’s talented with his mouth - she _knows_ he is, has experienced his skills firsthand - and if he offers up _that_ service in the next ten seconds, she isn’t sure that she will turn him down.

Perhaps she _shouldn’t_ turn him down.

A loud knocking at her chamber door startles her, and she jerks her hand free of the Thief in an instant, shoves him away by the face and scrambles to put some distance between them. He stays dutifully on his knees, his hands raised in surrender, and it saves him - oh, it’s the only thing that saves him - because about a thousand emotions consume the Queen in an instant. Mortification, rage, arousal, frustration, and anxiety war for dominance, drowning out rational thought, and it is purely his hands-off pose paired with his firmly stated, “My only intention was Her Majesty’s pleasure,” that keeps her from immediately ordering his execution.

* * *

The pounding on her door comes a second time, and after throwing him the nastiest look Robin is sure she can muster, the Queen crosses the room and flings the door open with a _bang!_

Robin recognizes her Lieutenant, Brody, who looks like he knows exactly how late the hour is and just how angry his Queen will be for the interruption, and to the man’s credit, he at least has the forethought to start with an apology as he hands her some sort of note.

Robin cannot overhear the conversation - the guard keeps his voice purposely low - and neither can he see what was on the note. But he gets a bad feeling when the guard looks over at him, nods confidently, and finishes off a sentence that sounds a lot like, “I’m quite sure, Your Majesty.”

Fuck.

“Come here, Thief,” the Queen beckons to him, and though he isn’t overly fond of following orders, this particular guard of hers is tops, and he knows there’s no escaping. This guard is a tall man, in exceptional shape with short-cropped black hair and sharp features, exceedingly well-trained in the art of combat, who happens to also be clever and observant. Robin learned on his first night in captivity that this was not the man to cross when he was at as much of a disadvantage as he currently is, so when the Queen calls for him, he goes without protest and stands where she tells him to, all while doing his best to ignore the disapproving look on the other man’s face.

She commands that he roll up his sleeves all the way to his elbows, and though she doesn’t explain why, he gets a sick feeling in his stomach when she warns, “I will tolerate no mistakes, Brody. Be positive.”

The guard studies Robin’s arms for a moment, then nods to his Queen once more and confirms, “I am certain, Your Majesty. Without a doubt.”

A terrible, satisfied little smile twists her features then, and when she looks at Robin, he barely recognizes her. No longer is she the woman from the chaise, the almost-sweet darling who nervously accepted soft kisses to her fingertips and gentle caresses of her hands. No - standing before him now is the Evil Queen, her villainous mask secured, her deranged alter ego firmly in place. He realizes with a sigh that he’s lost his chance at gaining any favor of hers tonight, that while the evening had been going quite well up to this point, it’s utterly ruined now.

Thanks a lot, Brody.

His annoyance at his situation continues to escalate when, on the very next breath, the Queen orders him back down to the dungeon in the custody of her Lieutenant, and he’s certain he has never hated his captivity more. Being cooped up in this fucking cell is driving him mad, and on top of that, he was supposed to have reported back to camp days ago, but he’s been completely unable to escape. With the Queen having him watched like a hawk, he can’t get out of this cage even for a second, and unlike the King’s guard, _her_ bloody guards are far too loyal for bribery; he knows, because he’s tried _everything_ (and then some) to turn them, all to no avail.

He’s running out of patience now though, and he’s got to do something soon, he’s got to break loose of this hold she has on him, so that he can finish what he came here to do in the first place. The Queen has become too much of a distraction, she’s taken up too much of his time, and he’s got to focus, got to do what he vowed he would on the day he discovered who was truly to blame for the death of his family.

And he will not stop until that debt is paid in blood.


	4. The Devil's in the Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - mention of suicide attempt, torture, violence, non-graphic scene of marital rape, mentions of domestic abuse, emotional abuse, other dark themes.

Regina has known Snow White since she was a toddler, and she’s loved her just as long. From the second she held her stepdaughter in her arms at the age of seventeen and looked down into those big, round hazel eyes, she’s been hooked, just as drawn to the little girl’s sweet nature and winning charm as everyone else in this realm.

Snow is sixteen now, is a very sheltered teenager, so different from the moody, sullen girl that Regina was at that age. The girl is exceedingly spoiled by the affections of everyone who knows her, especially Leopold, who positively adores her and nearly smothers her with his dotage, but still she has somehow managed to become a sweet and polite young lady. She is funny and smart, with an open heart and mind, and a love for animals that Regina also shares. Snow is a mixture of all the best qualities a young Princess should be, but further, she has all of the _extra_ qualities that Regina is certain Leopold and Eva hoped she would have. In short, Snow is a perfect example of what the child of the Kind King and Benevolent Queen of the Enchanted Forest should be.

Without any doubt, Snow White is the most kindhearted soul Regina has ever known. She is pure, perfect sunshine in a world otherwise full of oozing, putrid filth. She’s been the only bright spot for Regina in a sea of complete blackness, the one thing that made her pull back _just enough_ when the idea of dragging the sharp edge of a dagger up the length of her wrist got just tempting enough to make her actually break the skin. Regina has spent every spare moment she could manage with Snow, selfishly attempting to find a sliver of hope for herself in the little girl’s hazel eyes as the days turned into months, and the months turned into years, and the years just… passed her by.

Regina has been there for every major moment of Snow’s life. She is the one who sat with her for countless hours, making up games and stories to teach Snow her numbers and her letters, her colors, shapes, and all the animals in the kingdom. She spent so much time with her that eventually young Snow had started to call her, by what all rights _was_ her proper association, “stepmother,” but Leopold promptly put a stop to that, furiously reminding them both that Regina was not _, nor would she ever be,_ anything close to Snow’s mother.

But Snow, the sweet soul, had seen the look on Regina’s face, had watched closely as Leopold had dragged Regina out into the corridor and spit his angry, venomous words at her, and apparently, the girl couldn’t care less about his opinion. For the second he had left the two of them alone, she had thrown herself into the Queen’s lap, pressed her forehead to Regina’s, and wrapped her little arms just as-tight-as-can-be around her neck. As she gazed deeply into Regina’s tortured, dark brown eyes and twisted her tiny fingers in the Queen’s long, black hair, she had boldly pronounced Regina’s new term of endearment was to be _Nina,_ and _that_ , she had informed her, _was even better than calling her stepmother,_ because Snow had created it _just for her._

Horseback riding is one of the things Snow loves most, one of the many passions she shares with her _Nina_ , an artform she actually learned from Regina, which Leopold _still_ has no idea ever even took place.

Regina hadn’t been able to refuse Snow when she’d asked, or rather, when the then seven-year-old had _demanded_ that Regina teach her how to ride. It had been too cute, too much for her to deny when Snow had stomped her tiny gold-embroidered, slipper-clad foot, put her little hands on her hips, pursed her ruby lips and told her _very_ matter-of-factly that she _immediately_ needed riding lessons.

When Regina had asked her why it was so important, Snow had tipped up her chin and without missing a beat she’d stated that she had observed Regina riding her horse earlier that day, and now she simply _must_ ride that way too, because it’s clearly the _proper way_ and since every other instructor was a _man_ , Regina was the only one who could teach her _how a lady should ride_.

Snow had been terrible at horsemanship, absolutely _not_ a natural, but it didn’t really matter. Riding lessons gave the two of them another excuse to spend countless hours together, to laugh and play with the big animals that they both adored, and when Regina was through, Snow actually wasn’t a half-bad rider, either.

The smell of hay, leather, and horse always reminds her of those days with Snow, never fails to make her think of the little girl giggling loudly, bouncing ridiculously in her child-sized saddle, and _always_ bartering for more time with an adorable, “Oh please, _please,_ can’t you spare another ten minutes, Nina?” while she turned those sweet puppy-dog eyes on her.

Regina is so grateful that she’d caved to her now, that she’d always been such a foolish pushover for that nickname Snow had given her, because she at least has this little secret of theirs to treasure - a few extra stolen, sweet moments on horseback that Leopold has never managed to sully, simply because he does not know they exist.

When eventually Snow came of age to start her formal education, she of course required a tutor, and Regina considers her role in that to be her greatest achievement in life. To this day, it is the only argument with Leopold that Regina has ever been able to win (without cheating) since she became Queen. Her mother may have sold her like currency, but Cora isn’t stupid - she made sure that her currency was of the utmost value, and Regina has a far superior education than anyone in Leopold’s kingdom - _including_ Leopold - because of that.

Everyone is aware of Regina’s education - it is a point of pride in Misthaven - so when Regina insisted she was the best candidate to tutor Snow, it was no question that any tutor he could have hired for his daughter would have fallen far short of her. Being that he will only ever accept the absolute best for Snow, and he refused to give Regina any other responsibilities that might otherwise take up her time, it had only made sense for him to allow Regina to tutor the girl.

For a few years it had been a splendid arrangement, for it had given her a purpose, had given her something to focus on, somewhere to put her time and energy, and she’d put every ounce of herself into teaching her stepdaughter everything her little mind could hold. She had spent endless hours creating fun lessons and figuring out new ways to keep Snow interested in even the most boring subjects, was constantly researching to make sure her stepdaughter was taught the most current and useful information for her age, and from Snow’s consistent, near-perfect marks, Regina had done one hell-of-a-job of it.

Regina was allowed this task up until three years ago, when Snow turned thirteen and was officially sent off to attend the Royal Academy, where she quickly outpaced her peers, which were comprised of young royals from other kingdoms. Regina had always known this was coming - it was no surprise that Snow would eventually go off to school, but it had nearly killed her when she left. Not only did Regina lose the only responsibility she had, the only _distraction_ , but for nine months out of the year, she lost the one person she cared most about, the one little reason she had for getting up and facing each otherwise completely abhorrent day.

The first school year apart had been the hardest. Not only had Snow been taken away from her, but even though Regina consistently wrote to her at school, she never received a single letter in return, which had devastated her. She couldn’t understand how Snow could forget about her, how the sweet girl she held so dear to her could suddenly be so apathetic. But when Snow had returned that summer, minutes before Leopold had swept her off to their summer estate - of which Regina was explicitly _not_ invited - a tearful Snow had slipped her a heartfelt note, telling her how she had missed her terribly while she was away at school and asking Regina why she hadn’t responded to any of _her_ letters.

When Regina realized that they had been sabotaged, her dark and dismal world had flamed _red_ with rage, and she’d nearly torn the castle in two on her hunt for answers as to why she hadn’t received Snow’s letters. Several messengers lost their lives over their involvement in the conspiracy.

She learned later that Leopold had ordered it, and when she finally had a chance to confront him at the end of the summer, when he finally returned to the main castle with Snow, he had smugly brushed her off and told her that Snow didn’t need any silly distractions. Then, to add insult to injury, he had dumped every single letter she had written to Snow on the floor in front of her - all of which he had clearly opened and read - laughed in her face and told her if she wanted a child to spoil so badly, then she had better hurry up and make him one of her own.

Oh, how she fucking hates him.

Luckily, Regina had been able to explain to Snow what happened to their letters, though she had called it all an unfortunate accident by the mail carriers so as not to incite Leopold’s temper and encourage him to further separate them. Snow had forgiven her in an instant, and though the girl really didn’t understand how such a thing could’ve happened, she didn’t pester Regina with questions.

Leopold’s daughter really is too good for this world - too sweet, too trusting. It’s no wonder something terrible had to happen to her, no surprise at all that her sweet soul could not withstand this putrid, rotting hell hole.

* * *

Robin wakes with a start, his legs cramped from being pulled up into his chest for warmth, his neck and back aching from sleeping on the stone floor of his cell. It smells awful in the dungeon - the air is stagnant and damp, there is mildew growing along the bars of his cell - and they must be underground because it’s bloody freezing. It’s a damn shame that the raggedy blanket he’d managed to barter for with one of the day guards is infested with about a million ravenous fleas, because from the way his teeth are chattering, he certainly could have used it.

The sound of a man’s scream sends another jolt of awareness through him, a piercing screech of agony that's got goose pimples shivering along his spine as someone is tortured. Robin listens with gritted teeth while the poor sod begs and pleads for mercy, claiming he _doesn’t know anything_ , that there’s been _some sort of mistake_ , and how he’s never heard a word about any _thief._

That last part is what’s got Robin scrambling to his feet, pressing his face to the iron bars and straining to get a look at the prisoner, but it’s no use. The guards still have the man up in the main room with all their hellish little instruments, and he can’t see a blasted thing. But he can hear, _Christ,_ he can still hear the racket, and it only takes a few more seconds and another couple of tormented shrieks before gut-wrenching guilt swells within him, and he drops to his knees because - _fuck_ \- sure enough, he recognizes the man’s voice.

It’s Alan.

It’s one of his mates, or rather, one of his gang. They’re fellows in the same band of outlaws that hail from Sherwood Forest, and while he’s not exceptionally close with Alan, he is certain it’s him. He’s known the man for years - they’ve shared many fires, have fought together in countless skirmishes with local authorities, and while Robin wouldn’t say they’re the best of friends, he would consider him one of the better blokes in that bunch.

He can’t say that about all the members of his crew - they _are_ bandits, after all - but there are a few decent fellows, and even one or two he’s rather close with. Robin’s been in the gang for most of his life - he joined just after his family had been killed - and through the years, he’s managed to find something akin to brotherhood with those lads. He has to admit though, that they’re a bit of a rowdy bunch, unpredictable at best and addicted to trouble like it’s a bloody drug - which is probably why he fits in so well.

He doesn’t know what the hell Alan is doing here, doesn’t know why he came close enough to the castle to end up in the dungeon, but he’d wager there are other Sherwood outlaws running amok in the area as well. They always work better as a team than on their own, and _Christ,_ Alan might be too stubborn to squeal, but there are a few lads in their merry band of misfits who might be persuaded to roll on Robin if they thought it’d save their sorry hides from the Evil Queen. And, after suffering the ill effects of her temper himself, he surely can’t blame them for it.

He wonders how many of the others have been caught and if he'll hear their screams tonight. He’d wager that others have already been killed, and he's curious whether he will ever find out who paid the ultimate price. He’d love to know just what the bloody hell they were thinking by coming here - if they were trying to help him or if they just got impatient - and god's, for their sake, he hopes they figure out quickly that they should absolutely _not_ mess with the Queen. If he could get a message out, he’d tell them to avoid this place like the plague.

As it turns out, Alan is the only Merry Man Robin hears that night, and the next night it’s more of the same. He never sees Alan, but he hears his god-awful screams while the Queen’s guards torment him - listens intently as the poor man is terribly abused and interrogated about _the thief_. To his immense credit, Alan never breathes a word of their connection, though Robin can’t be sure if his fellow outlaw is even aware that it’s _him_ they’re referring to, since the guards don’t actually know his name.

Unfortunately for Alan though, none of that really seems to matter, because it goes on like this for three more excruciating nights, each one making Robin feel worse and worse about the man’s unfortunate predicament, until the fourth night when Robin is pulled from his cell by the Queen’s Lieutenant. As Brody marches him down the corridor of prison cells, he finally catches a glimpse of Alan, and he selfishly wishes he hadn’t. The man is lying flat on his back on the floor of his own cell, his arms and legs splayed at unnatural angles, mouth agape in a silent scream, eyes wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Robin doesn’t know what they’ve done to him, but he can certainly imagine, and fuck, for sympathy’s sake, he wishes death on the man before these bastards have a chance to lay their ruddy hands on him yet again.

His guilt mounts when he’s hauled up the short flight of stairs and into the main room of the dungeon, where he passes by two more of his mates. One is an older fellow named Tuck that Robin has done quite a bit of ale smuggling with, and the other - _fuck_ \- is the man who first got him off the streets. It’s the man who recruited him into the gang, who gave him food, shelter, and a sense of purpose. He’s the bloke Robin had, at one time, seriously looked up to, the man that all the girls back in Sherwood call the Knave of Hearts, but to him, will always be plain old Will Scarlet.

His eyes connect with Will’s as he’s roughly hauled past the two men, and Robin does his best not to give away their connection, to act as if they’re complete strangers, but it’s more difficult than he’d have guessed. Guilt nearly cripples him, a thousand memories of heists and campfires and pints shared flash before his eyes and make him feel like a right piece of shit for what he knows these two men are about to experience on his behalf. He can’t even alert them, can’t give them any sort of warning - no. All he can do is keep his face completely impassive as he’s shoved along and hope these two have a better time than Alan did convincing the guards that they haven’t got a clue who the goddamn _thief_ is, or what his motivations are.

It occurs to him that he’d better stop fannying about and escape this hell hole before this lunatic of a Queen gets her murdering hands on anyone else from the gang. He’s already got enough issues on his plate to last a lifetime, to last _three_ lifetimes actually - and if he doesn’t smarten up, she’ll kill the whole crew before they even have a chance to enact their plans. And gods, what a bloody-fucking-waste that would be.

It's the same ritual tonight as the last time they dragged him out of the dungeon - he’s cleaned up, given fresh clothes, and taken to the Queen’s chambers. Only this time, the woman herself is nowhere in sight, and her Lieutenant takes the liberty of shoving him roughly down into the large black chair he previously occupied, where he then proceeds to wrap large iron shackles around his ankles.

Lovely.

Once he's secured, the guard grabs him roughly by the hair and jerks his head back so he can look directly into his eyes, the fierce chestnut brown piercing through him as he growls nastily, “You will wait in this _exact_ spot. You will not move. You will not speak. You will not do a fucking thing that Her Majesty does not _ex-plic-it-ly_ command of you, or I will personally flay you alive. Got it, rat?”

“Not a step out of line, I assure you.” Normally he’d smirk, or he’d come up with some cheeky comment to add, but knowing what’s going on in the dungeon tonight has sullied his mood, and he just hasn’t got it in him. So in a rare occurrence, he says nothing more, and with one last good cuff to his ear, the guard is out the door without another word.

It is hours that Robin waits in the near silence of the Queen’s room. He knows because she happens to keep a small clock on her writing desk, and though it’s too far away to actually see the time, he can hear its incessant ticking for what feels like forever.

It hasn’t all been boring though. In his first few minutes of solitude, he tried every trick he knows to wriggle out of his shackles - the ones on his wrists are quite standard, connected with a short chain, but his ankles aren’t connected; rather, they’ve got short chains that go to the metal base of the chair. He'd have tried to pick the locks, but he's got no tools to do it with - shackles aside, he’d still managed to rummage through that guard’s pockets on the way up - but he’d found nothing but lint and a bit of pipeweed. So, he hasn’t got anything to pick the locks of his irons with, and he'd been forced to try to slip out of them instead.

He had another thought though - that he might be able to stand on the chair for leverage and by brute force, somehow manage to pull his way out of his ankle shackles or break the legs of the chair. Unfortunately, that plan was nixed in about two seconds, because he quickly found that the chains weren’t quite long enough to allow him to get up on top of the seat, and though he did his best by bending his body in a variety of awkward angles, he wasn’t able to find a way to brace hard enough to accomplish either of those ideas.

The chair he’s in is huge - wing-backed with black leather cushioning and black walnut for the frame - and he thought perhaps if he were to move it, that he could get into the Queen’s writing desk and get his hands on a pen or a letter opener. But again, his hopes for that were dashed when upon inspection of the bottom of the chair, he found the blasted thing had been bolted right into the stone floor. Sure enough, no matter how he jerked it around, he'd been unable to move it even an inch, and there is nothing within reach that he can use to help free himself, nothing that he can even tuck away that might be of use in his cell later, so after a while he gave up on that too, and just resigned himself to a bit of a nap. It’s been days since he’s slept - Alan’s harrowing screams have kept him up, not to mention the rats, bats, fleas, spiders, and other rather nasty inhabitants of the dungeon, and this chair is much more comfortable than the jagged, unforgiving cold floor of his cell anyway.

He almost doesn’t hear the Queen when she enters - he’s legitimately dozed off, his head is lolled to the side and he’s even entertaining the idea of a dream when he feels the air in the room shift, hears the soft scrape of stone on stone, and his instincts rouse him. He doesn’t move, just cracks his eyes open in time to see her slipping inside the room through her secret passage - the one he knows from his previous “self-guided tours” of the castle is a one-way corridor that leads to the King’s bedchambers. She’s wearing a periwinkle blue robe, her feet bare, long black hair twisted up in a high bun, but despite the late hour and her state of undress, she’s in full makeup and enough gaudy jewelry to purchase a small village - including a golden crown. From both of her ears hang huge glittering gold earrings, around her neck is an enormous, intricate sapphire necklace, both of her wrists are wrapped with bulky, multi-banded pink diamond bracelets, and every one of her fingers wears at least one ring, some of them more than one.

For a moment he’s utterly confused by her strange state of both undress and overdress. He looks again at her crown, studies the blue sapphires embedded in it and notices that they form the shape of birds flying all along the band, interspersed between pink, five-petaled flowers, all of which is surrounded by a sea of golden thorny vines to make up the surrounding filigree - and suddenly it hits him. Those are _bluebirds_ and _briar roses_. She’s - _bloody fucking hell_ \- she’s wearing the Queen’s Coronation Jewels.

Which is fine, except…

Regina does not hail from the Briar Rose Kingdom, where the beloved bluebird sings in the thicket so sweet. Regina is from _Misthaven_.

Which means those are _Eva’s_ jewels.

And - _Christ_ \- now that Robin looks at her, all dressed in the King’s favorite colors and practically drowning in Eva’s personal effects, she really does look a bit like the long dead first wife of Leopold.

At the realization of _why_ she’s dressed up like this, of _why_ she’s slipping back into her room in the wee hours of the morning from the King’s bedchamber, a wave of intense nausea flashes through Robin. Bile rises in his throat, his mouth waters, and it takes _everything_ in him not to vomit with pure disgust of the other man. He’s known for ages that there was no love lost between the King and his second wife, he’s known what she must do as part of her wifely, her _queenly_ duties - everyone does - but _fuck_ , he never knew it was quite like _this_.

What kind of sick-fucking-bastard dresses up his wife in his _dead wife's_ personal effects when he makes love to her?

Regardless of the terrible things the Evil Queen has done, Robin has honestly never felt so repulsed, so _revolted_ by another man's actions in his entire life. _No_ woman deserves this. 

When she comes into the light a bit more, he notices that she is frowning, that there are deep lines set across her forehead, and when she picks up her head, he can finally see her dark chocolate eyes and _oh_ , his stomach drops and his heart does this horrid twinge that steals all of his breath in one go, because it’s absolutely bloody obvious - she’s been crying.

She’s been crying _a_ _lot._

Her eyes are red, puffy, and raw looking, her face flushed, her liner smeared down her high-carved cheekbones and her expression is nothing short of utterly distraught. She looks like she’s just lost the love of her life, like she has just barely scraped herself together enough to stumble down the passageway, like she might completely fall to pieces at any moment.

He has a mad urge to comfort her - to bloody-well _destroy_ Leopold - even though he knows he shouldn’t feel the slightest bit sorry for her. She is undoubtedly a murdering maniac, a powerful monarch without a shred of mercy for any of her victims, but _Christ_ , right now she just looks so _small,_ so fragile, and _so fucking sad_ , and he can’t help but see her as something far less threatening. She looks so much like the beautiful young woman he’s caught rare glimpses of over the last few years, like the woman he’s watched crumble bit by bit as time and exploitation weighed heavy on her, and the longer he stares at her tear-stained face, the more his chest burns with anxiety and rage over her distress.

She hasn’t said a word to him yet, hasn’t even cast a glance in his direction, and she immediately goes to her wardrobe, where she starts to remove her jewelry. He can see her hands shaking from here, can hear the clacking of each expensive item as she gracelessly yanks it from her body and forcefully shoves it into its designated place in the large jewelry case in front of her. When she gets to her necklace, however, she fumbles with the clasp for several cringeworthy seconds, and _damn him_ if his own nimble fingers don’t positively itch to help her.

Instead, Robin watches her silently, unsure what is expected of him. He doesn't know at all what his purpose is tonight, but he knows by now to keep his mouth shut around her if he'd like to keep his head attached to his neck.

She starts to cry, however, when after several attempts, she still can't manage to get the bloody necklace off. Her temper rises as she fights with the blasted thing, and then, in a complete fit, she starts tugging desperately at it, wrenching at the necklace in a panic like it's choking her, her own nails scratching viciously into the delicate skin of her chest and neck, and he sits up straight in his chair, his ankle chains pulled tight, preparing to intervene when, thank the gods, the clasp suddenly gives way and the sapphires go scattering across the floor like beautifully cursed ice crystals.

He knows it’s against his code as a thief, but he doesn't even bother to take inventory of the ruined jewelry.

He can’t.

His eyes are fixed on her, on Regina, because she's still shaking, still crying, and _no,_ no, she sounds even more upset now.

She's _sobbing_ , her slender body wracking with the effort, her breaths harsh and choppy, and then - oh _fuck_ , oh gods - she rips the crown right off her head and with this wretched, anguished scream she hurls it clear across the room. Then, _Christ,_ she’s shoving her robe off as if it’s on fire, as if it’s burning her alive, and her entire naked back is bared to him. Suddenly he’s standing bolt upright, wanting to do something - _anything_ \- but _shit_ , he's still shackled to the blasted chair, already at the end of his short tethers and he trips forward, falls face-first onto his goddamn hands and knees, and then - _fuck fuck fuck!_ \- she’s turning and their eyes connect - _bloody fucking hell_ \- and Robin's mind draws a complete blank.

* * *

Snow White is ill. _Deathly_ ill.

This afternoon, the stable boys had found Snow in the barn, unconscious for some unknown amount of time, her body cold, convulsing, and covered in dirt, with a strange, red rash speckling her hands and arms that no one could identify the cause of. But the Royal Healer had taken one look at her vital signs and he had known - _gods,_ they had _all_ known - for it couldn’t be anything else.

It’s that godforsaken sleeping sickness.

Snow and Leopold had barely just returned from the summer estate, have only been at the main castle for a few short days, and Regina cannot believe that her stepdaughter has taken ill. Snow was always a healthy child, has had hundreds of health examinations and it has long been thought that she had somehow avoided inheriting her mother’s illness, for she has never shown any signs of it in all her sixteen short years.

Leopold has had his Royal Healer monitoring her closely since Eva died - he _obsesses_ over her health, refuses to lose his daughter the way he lost his precious wife, and now, gods, with Snow taken sick, he’s gone into a full panic. He’s isolated Snow from everyone and forbidden anyone from seeing her aside from himself, the Royal Healer, and, incidentally, Cora.

When the Royal Healer could not stop Snow White’s convulsions, Leopold had called on Regina’s mother Cora for help. It seems that Snow is fast approaching death’s door, that the disease is advancing even faster than it did when it killed Eva, so in an act of desperation, Leopold had asked Cora to use her magic to cast a stasis spell over Snow as a last attempt to stop the disease from progressing. Cora had, of course, agreed, citing that she would not allow her step-granddaughter to die on her watch.

The magic helped, but the situation remains dire. Snow could die at any minute, could succumb to the same illness that killed her mother, and gods, Regina cannot breathe, she cannot think - she cannot function while her sweet girl lays stricken and helpless.

To make matters worse, even though she pleaded with Leopold - literally got down on her knees and begged him, bartered with her body, her obedience, and everything else she could think of, swore to do _anything_ he wanted, he won’t budge an inch. All she wants is five minutes - one minute - _ten seconds_ \- just long enough to set eyes on Snow from clear across the room, but no matter what she says or does, Leopold will not put her on the visitor list.

She feels like she’s dying, eroding from this slow torture of constantly being denied her stepdaughter, accelerated by that fact that the girl has now taken so gravely ill. It’s been eating away at her little by little, but tonight, Leopold’s forbidding of Regina to see her after almost no contact throughout the entire school year, followed by this whole summer spent apart is just too much - she feels like her heart is breaking in half, and if she cannot see Snow soon, she doesn't know how she's going to survive it.

Leopold seems to have lost all control of what little wits he has, for tonight when he sent for her, he was nearly hysterical, which quickly lead to one of the worst nights she has ever spent with him. When she arrived, he spent nearly an hour ranting incoherently about his daughter and his lineage, pacing his bedchamber like a madman, then he switched to speculating wildly about plots to overthrow the Monarchy. All of that was bad enough, but then he proceeded to keep Regina in his revolting bed for hours upon hours on end, all in an attempt to _make him a backup heir, just in case Snow doesn't make it._

She always feels disgusting when she’s in her husband’s bed.

She always feels used. Degraded. Weak.

Worthless.

But tonight, gods, tonight the terror of losing Snow cracked every defense she has carefully constructed over the past thirteen years. Tonight, the fissures ran much too deep for her to withstand, and to her absolute horror, about half-way through the third time he was taking her, she had started crying, and for the life of her, she _could not_ stop.

And that had made him angry. _So angry._

Livid.

He’d snapped at her, scolded her, had even threatened to cane her into silence, but that had only managed to make her cry harder, to fall to absolute pieces like the fragile coward she is. He hadn’t followed through on his threats, of course - he almost never does, Leopold isn’t one for violence, not with women anyway - he doesn’t have the stomach for it. No, he’d just finished with her, then sent her away with a look of pure revulsion that had humiliated her so deeply, she doesn’t know how she’ll ever show her face outside of her own room again.

Everything is a blur after that - all she knows is that she _must_ get out of these things - _her_ things - _fucking Eva’s_ things. Her skin is crawling, and she can’t stand it, the scent of her husband is clinging to her like rotten flesh and these baubles around her neck and wrists bite into her like the shackles they represent. She claws desperately at them, sheds everything as fast as she can, but her hands aren’t working right, and her vision is blurry - _it’s so fucking blurry_ \- her hearing has gone to static and the harder she tries the more difficult everything becomes. She swears that the necklace is choking her, it’s alive, it’s coiling around her neck like a snake, tighter, tighter, _tighter_ \- and just when she’s sure she’ll die from the grip it has on her throat, she manages to break free of it - _thank the gods_ \- and she can finally breathe for a moment, can use her lungs to expel the terror within her as she throws Eva’s fucking crown clear across the room.

The robe is next, _fuck_ , she must get it off, to bathe, to be rid of _him,_ and she’s seconds away from it. The gaudy periwinkle fabric hits the floor, and she can almost feel the icy water splashing against her, the rough rasp of the sponge that she will drag across her skin - over, and over, and over - until she is red, and raw, and stinging, and every trace of him is erased. But then there is a sound - a clattering, followed swiftly by a thump and an, “ _Oomph!_ ” and, full of alarm, Regina turns.

_Ohhh no._

This cannot be happening.

How could she have forgotten?

The Thief is there, only a few feet away from her, down on all fours and looking up at her with those bright blue eyes - _oh hell_ \- and she’s naked - _fuck, shit, oh nooo_ \- and she cannot put that robe back on, _she can’t._

Regina freezes, has no idea what to do, what to say, wishes that the world would swallow her up and put her out of this wretched misery, but then, _oh_ , he opens his smart mouth to speak, gives her this soft little smile, and she nearly dies of shock.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

It’s too much, too similar to the night she first met him, and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. He’d surprised the hell out of her that night too, and she’d nearly fainted with shock, had jumped out of her skin when he had appeared out of practically nowhere while she was smack in the middle of a similar moment of weakness and humiliation. But that time, oh _that time_ , he had helped her, he had made her feel things - incredible things, affectionate things, _passionate_ things - that she had never felt before (or since), and she’d been able to carry on, to make it through another night, another day, another year, clinging to that memory, that distraction, as if it were a lifeline.

An idea comes to her then as she stares at him, thoroughly chained to the big wing-backed chair and looking up at her, all calm and collected, like he’s not the least bit perturbed by anything he’s just witnessed, and for a second she dares to let her guard down. She’s never trusted another adult, has never put her faith in anyone, because she has only ever been failed by _everyone_. And she certainly doesn’t trust _him_ , but in this moment when she’s breaking, when she’s bursting at the seams and her soul is being splintered into a million jagged pieces, all she can do is bring her eyes to his and whisper the one word she has so rarely uttered in her life.

“Help.”


	5. Two Years Prior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - moderate/mild descriptions of (non-violent) marital rape, emotional abuse, and Leopold generally being a huge piece of shit  
> Filthy smut - adultery, anal play, maybe voyeurism, other non-vanilla things  
> Please heed the Chapter 1 warnings and the Explicit overall rating.

*****THIS CHAPTER OCCURS TWO YEARS PRIOR TO THE STORY START*****

The King summons her early tonight, and he is in a rather pleasant mood. There was a time when Regina was grateful for his good moods, when she would count herself lucky to be on the receiving end of his semi-interested smiles and gentler touches, but it has been so many years of this tired dance now that she no longer has the energy for it.

Still, she supposes she prefers him in these sorts of spirits to the all too familiar pathetic, anguished ones he so often touches her with, the ones where his dead wife's name spills like a mantra from his lips as he thrusts inside of her. At least when he's like this he sometimes lets her lie on her back instead of her stomach, doesn't grab the back of her jet-black hair and force her face into the feather pillow so he cannot see her features and be reminded that she is nowhere near the woman he'd prefer.

It’s on these nights - when her husband isn’t obsessed with calling her _Eva_ \- that if Regina closes her eyes and keeps absolutely silent, she can almost pretend that it’s _her_ he wants. It’s taken her over a decade of practice to get it right, to shift in the slightest of ways so he won’t notice what she’s doing, but sometimes she can get him to accidentally brush against her nipples - which are so sensitive and always traitorously aching for attention. On a rare occasion she can lift her hips in a subtle enough way that he doesn’t feel quite so intrusive, and she nearly manages to get the slightest bit of pleasure from his lecherous attentions, too.

_Almost._

It doesn't matter what position they use though, it always ends the same. With a grunt of that other woman's name he comes inside of her, then quickly returns to his senses, upon which he finds the need to punish her for not being Eva by forcing her to lay there next to him until he falls asleep. He wants her pregnant, has been trying to do it for years, and is too stupid to understand that she takes a monthly potion to stave off his attempts. But his ignorance doesn't make it any less terrible, doesn’t make the degradation of being forced to hold his come inside of her while she maintains the _exact_ position she was in when he finished with her - which usually has her bent over the side of his bed, or with her ass up and her face in the pillows for at least an hour, while he takes his time readying for sleep.

Leopold doesn’t even bother to hide the fact that he thoroughly enjoys torturing her this way, because in his mind, his motivations are pure. He’s simply ensuring that she isn't cleaning up too soon, that she's, "giving it time to take," because he knows the second she gets the chance, she will rid herself of all traces of him. So, he purposely dawdles, takes _forever_ to finish his bedtime routine, then demands that she stay next to him until he nods off. Only then is she allowed to slip from his room and pad carefully and quietly down the secret passageway back to her own, where she proceeds to scrub his fluids from her until she is raw from the effort.

Tonight, his good mood at least ensures that this will be over quickly though, and his exertion indicates that he will fall asleep fast. He's getting old, increasingly out of shape each day it seems, and it hasn't taken him long to work himself into a sweaty frenzy. His enthusiasm, however, hasn't waned, and he’s learned to make it easy on himself - has propped her hips up with a few pillows under her ass and is gripping her around the thighs hard enough to bruise, his hazel eyes glued to where he's penetrating her while he thrusts carelessly fast. She can hear him whispering _Eva, oh Eva_ , but she shuts her eyes and blocks it out, tries not to make any noise because she knows he hates that, it ruins his fantasy because she doesn't sound like _her._ When at last he groans and spills, she rolls her eyes, then breathes a sigh of relief that at least for tonight, her wifely duties are nearly over.

Leopold pulls out and admires his handiwork, then nods in approval of the evidence he finds.

"Good enough," he wipes his hand on her skin as if it's a rag and pushes himself up off the bed. "Now stay put," he reminds.

This is the point in the night when, no matter many times it happens, no matter how hard she fights it, no matter much she tries to numb herself to it, she always feels the hot burning of tears in her eyes, and she has the urge to scream, or vomit, or at the very least, to shatter every mirror in this fucking castle… but somehow, she doesn't. She just stares blankly at the canopy of the huge four poster bed, waiting submissively like the good little Queen she is for the King to climb in next to her and get comfortable.

God, how she hates him, _loathes_ him with every fiber of her being.

It’s a hot and humid night, one of many they have had this summer, so her naked body is warm on top of the blankets, and she is thankful that she doesn’t have to ask him if she can cover herself. In the cooler months, the King typically allows it, though he never lets her cover her lower half, so she’s always forced to deal with cold toes and legs on her walk back to her room. Tonight though, at least she doesn’t have to speak, doesn’t have to utter a word to the vile man, no. She can stare, and stare, _and stare_ at the ornate patterns that are carved into the ceiling, can recite potion ingredients, and think up new civilian punishments and all the things she will do to make herself feel less like a weak, useless whore and more like the Queen her mother is always reminding her that she is supposed to be.

Leopold’s breaths have evened out within the half hour, but she doesn’t make a move to leave - not yet. He can be a light sleeper at first, and her minimum time to wait is always an hour, because she has learned through unfortunate trial and error that if she wakes him, the clock restarts, and on several occasions, she has found herself stuck in his bed _all night_ , much to her chagrin and to his general amusement. So she continues her usual game of mental detachment, trying to think of anything and everything that might take her mind off the way she can feel the warm liquid seeping out from between her thighs.

Movement in the corner of the room draws her attention, raises the fine hairs on the back of her neck, but she doesn’t turn her head toward it or acknowledge it in any way. It has come from the same area as the door to her secret passage - meaning that if someone has entered the King’s chambers, they have come from the Queen’s, down the same, completely hidden path that she did - a path that _no one_ knows of except for her, and of course, the King.

Which can mean only one thing… she was followed.

She lays very still and tries to use her peripheral vision to catch any additional movement, but she doesn’t see anything. In fact, aside from that initial glimpse of _something,_ none of her senses can pick up any sort of presence at all, and within a few minutes, she is certain she’s made up the entire thing.

It is quite possible that her mind has finally cracked, that after all this time she’s finally lost it and she’s going to start envisioning frolicking fairies fluttering around like some crazy old magician who has lived far beyond their allotted days. She’s heard that’s what happened to Merlin, so it’s definitely possible for those graced with the gift of magic, but she doesn’t think she has enough magic for that to really affect her. To her mother’s supreme disappointment, Regina inherited almost none of her mother’s gift - she can’t do anything more than read Elvish and craft a few potions. Not like Cora, who can cast a wide variety of impressive and terrifying spells that can do anything from teleportation, to ripping out a man’s heart, to conjuring an object out of thin air.

Suddenly, a warm touch on the top of her foot nearly makes her scream with fright, but she catches herself at just the last second and is able to choke it back. When she looks down the bed, her eyes nearly fall out of her head when she sees a hand - large, weathered, calloused - wrapping carefully over her foot and smoothing gently up to her ankle in what almost feels like a comforting caress. And then, _of course_ it’s _him -_ that handsome, mysterious stranger, that _scoundrel -_ who pops his head up from the foot of the bed, with a fucking _smirk_ on his lips and the softest whisper of, "Fancy meeting you here."

He’s been lurking about the castle the last few days, this man who is far too good looking to be real, which is exactly why she _knew_ he didn’t belong, that he wasn’t servant or a guard, and certainly not a delivery person; but every time she sent a guard to question him, it was as if he vanished into thin air. He’s never done anything threatening, however, hasn’t drawn attention to himself until this exact moment, so admittedly, aside from the one or two times when she caught sight of him and he flashed her that dimpled, self-assured smile that makes her chest feel all warm and tight, Regina hasn’t given him much thought. She’s been otherwise distracted, partially because Snow is home from the Royal Academy, but also because her mother is visiting, hounding her constantly, and Regina can’t seem to get a moment to herself.

In regard to her current visitor however, her interest is now piqued, because from the way he was able to both find her secret passage and so quietly sneak into the King’s chambers, she is confident that this man is the burglar everyone’s been looking for. She’s heard Leopold (and a few others) complaining of personal effects that have recently gone missing, her husband has even accused two servants over the matter, but Regina knows better. The royal servants are loyal, and they are typically treated well, too much so to risk their positions by having sticky fingers. Besides, now that she can get a look at him, she can see that this man just has that scandalous look about him, and he positively reeks of mayhem, not to mention that his sudden appearance correlates with the disappearances of the objects.

Oh yes, he’s definitely their thief.

She doesn’t care all that much if he takes a few baubles from Leopold, but gods, she certainly doesn’t appreciate the liberties he’s taking _now_ , positively despises that anyone is seeing her in this moment, that he’s witnessing her in this humiliating subservience.

Regina wrinkles her nose and curls her lips back as mortification, shame and finally - _finally -_ blissful fury washes through her. She’s going to murder him, this shifty, trespassing bastard - just like she should have done the first few times she caught sight of him.

He’s as good as dead.

But then Leopold snores loudly and rolls onto his back, his arm flops down heavily on the mattress next to her, and she freezes. That familiar desperation of not wanting to wake him slams into her, and although she had started to rise up from her anger, even had the beginning of a plan for how best to kill the Thief formulating in her head, she obediently settles back down next to her husband - careful and quiet as a mouse.

_Don’t wake up, please don’t wake up._

It’s playing on a loop in her mind, and she gets lost in the fear for a few seconds, forgets that the Thief is even here until suddenly he touches her other foot, and she jumps - _fuck -_ and then he’s sliding both hands up to her ankles and down, rubbing softly.

Tears prick her eyes and panic wells in her chest. What the hell does he want? Is he trying to ruin this for her? Doesn’t he know that if he wakes the King, she’ll have to start all over; that she might end up here all night, that ugh, _oh gods_ , Leopold might even decide to take her for a second time tonight, just because he can? The Thief’s presence can only bring her more discomfort, perhaps even her death, and he needs to get the hell out of here.

Regina shifts her eyes to her husband, who is barely an arm’s length away, then directs her gaze down her naked body to the Thief. His expression is serious now, and when her eyes meet his, he locks them with an intensity that makes her swallow with nervousness.

As he eases away from the foot of the bed, he keeps his eyes trained on hers, but she can tell he is very aware of the King’s presence, can see from the way he keeps his movements smooth and light that he is concerned about disturbing the nightmare that is slumbering next to her, though it doesn’t seem to be stopping him from whatever his goal is. He’s dressed in a leather tunic and trousers, his hood pulled back so she can see his rugged, handsome face, and she is irritated that the closer he gets, the more it just cements the attraction she has felt.

 _Gods._ Why can’t he just be ugly?

She can see the muscular thickness of his chest and arms beneath the stretch of his clothing, catches a glimpse of the divot of his collarbone peeking out between the ties at his collar, nearly loses her breath at sea-blue of his irises when they catch the light, and she has to fight the tightening of arousal he stirs in her belly. He’s far too handsome for his own good, this filthy Thief.

He sneaks silently up to her side of the bed, then carefully settles down so he’s sitting next to her. Leopold had finished with her on her back tonight, so she’s still laying that way, her knees bent and splayed, her thighs spread wide, the pillow still shoved under her ass for good measure, on full display for the Thief, (and anyone else, really) should he decide to take in the view.

She expects him to - what man would pass up the opportunity? - but oddly enough he doesn’t. Instead, he holds eye contact with her, his brows knitted together with what looks like anger as he slowly tips his body forward over her, bracketing her shoulders with his hands so that he can carefully lean in and whisper in her ear.

“He has forced you to lay with him.” The Thief’s voice is extremely quiet, but even so, his tone is laced with a fiery irritation she did not expect.

Regina tips her face to his but otherwise holds perfectly still - she's too conditioned not to move, not to break her good habits that just might have her back in her own bed sometime tonight - and she presses her lips to his ear in kind.

“He is my husband _and_ the King, you fool,” she breathes angrily. “There is no such thing as force in this bed. Now _get out_.”

The Thief pulls back and stares into her eyes for so long that she becomes very uncomfortable staring back at him. She's held countless stare-downs with far more formidable foes, but perhaps that's the problem. His pretty blue eyes aren't set in a challenge, no - they're soft and curious, which is only made worse when he brings one hand up and strokes his fingers innocently across her forehead, then starts brushing her long bangs back, repeating the sweet action over and over while he studies her face. The bright blue of his eyes is profound; he’s watching her so closely it’s almost as if he’s trying to read her mind, and she’s never had anyone look at her so honestly, so openly. As the seconds pass, the intensity of his stare becomes so strong that she finds herself fighting the urge to squirm beneath him, and she ends up curling her hands into resolute fists and biting her bottom lip to keep an anxious whimper from escaping her lungs.

The Thief's eyes drift from her eyes to her mouth then, and she licks her lips in reaction before she can help it, takes a deep breath, and forces herself not to make a sound when the rising of her chest causes her nipples to accidentally brush the worn leather of his tunic. They pebble at the simple touch, and she has to sink her teeth into her tongue to immediately stop herself from arching up and brushing against him again because - _Gods_ save her - that felt much too good.

The Thief leans in again then, brings his lips so close to hers that they're barely a breath apart, and just when she starts to panic, thinking that he might be bold enough, _stupid enough,_ to kiss her, he curls his lip and whispers angrily, “His filthy come is running from you, it paints your perfect cunt.”

Regina flinches at the crassness of his harsh statement but says nothing. She has nothing to say to that.

_It’s true._

His fingers resume their soft, soothing motions across her forehead for a few seconds though, a direct contrast to his stinging words, and he brushes her bangs back, again and again, for quite some time before he continues.

“Tell me, my Queen,” his voice is soft, but there is an undertone that is positively _livid_ , and she has no idea why. What is his problem? “Would you like his vile secretions removed from your beautiful body?”

Her chest is suddenly heaving with the anxiety he has instigated in her. _Of course_ she wants it gone. She’s literally counting the seconds until she can bolt from this room and scrub every inch of herself until she’s outrageously clean.

But why should _he_ care? What ownership of her does he think a few stolen glances have earned him? _How dare he_ concern himself with her?!

She finds herself nodding despite her temper though, because more than anything, she _does_ want to be cleaned up. She wants it even more than she wants to put the Thief in his place, which is quite a lot, and if he has a way of making her clean again, of making her clean _right now,_ she’s certainly open to suggestions.

He leans down so his lips are almost against hers, and her breath ceases, her chest tightening in anticipation when he growls, “Then it will be my pleasure to rid you of this filth.”

He leaves her then, slips silently across the room to the wash basin and retrieves a wet cloth, before immediately returning to her.

Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward and eases onto the foot of the bed, taking care not to make the springs creak or the blankets shift too much. Regina’s heart slams with a mixture of nerves and excitement, with the sheer terror of getting caught and the thrill of possibly getting away with whatever he’s about to do. Gods, she just wants to be clean, wants _so much_ to feel better.

He moves up her body smoothly, quickly, and she doesn’t have time to inquire what he has planned, doesn’t even have time to work out the details for herself before he’s _\- oh shit_ \- slipping between her legs, and, and - _gods._

He’s running the cool cloth along each of her inner thighs, swiping away the mess she positively _despises_ , before smoothing it right over her hot center and bathing her with it. He’s thorough but gentle, takes his time and strokes his large hands comfortingly across the tops of her thighs, and Regina has no idea how to react, her body stills as her mind goes entirely blank. In her twenty-eight years, no one has ever shown her this sort of kindness, this brand of mercy. She wonders if this is some sort of dream, or a delusion perhaps.

She doesn’t want to lose this feeling though, this _rapture_ , and silently she brings one hand up, settles it over her eyes, and for a moment, she just shuts the world out. His touch is so soft, so tender and almost… sweet. It goes on and on, so _careful_ , somehow she could swear it even feels respectful.

By accident, she breathes the word, “Yesss,” and when he murmurs a soft, “Do you wish for more?” she nods her head vigorously in full agreement.

There is a pause in which he whispers, "May I touch…?"

Her chest is shaking and so are her hands, but Regina knows what she's saying, and above all else, it just _feels right_ when she desperately whispers, " _Please, gods, yes - touch me."_

And then…. then oh…

_Ohhh, sweet heavens._

He’s - _gods -_ it seems he’s replaced the cloth with his hot, wet tongue, and he’s smoothing it all over her, bathing her slick lips and then – _oooh, oooh_ \- sucking lightly on each of them - _mmm-god -_ before he traces her swollen, pink core and flicks straight up the center of her. She arches beneath the moist heat, her hips rising with the unexpected onslaught of pleasure that blooms, tingling fire and sparks flaring through her belly, her body so unused to this affectionate attention. He pulls back for a moment and she immediately looks down, catches him licking his lips and looking up at her, waiting it seems, to gauge her reaction. She parts her lips on an astonished little gasp, then - _ohhh_ \- she nods her head and grants him permission to continue, and - _fuck_ \- suddenly he’s a man on a mission, ducking his head back down and bringing his mouth to her over and over, his gentle tongue laving through her folds and soaking her. It’s a bit sloppy, his chin is wet, the scruff of his short beard glistens and his saliva runs down to her ass as he moves his mouth over her, his big hands shifting to spread her wider and wider - and she lets him, oh gods she lets him - wanting him to have totally unrestricted access to her.

She’s breathing hard, caught between intense embarrassment and obscene arousal, her clit throbbing for more of the attention that she’s not sure he means to provide with every sweep of his tongue and hard, sucking pull of his lips. She’s contributing to the wetness within seconds though - is unable to stop the way her hips shift up to meet his mouth, or the way her legs wantonly spread for him, completely compliant to his touch. Her husband snores soundly next to her and her heart races with the concept of him catching her like this, with the Thief’s mouth making her arch with easy lust, her chest flushed and nipples peaked into tight little buds without any sort of attention paid to them. Her breaths are stifled but syncopated, and in the next moment his tongue is at her entrance, and he’s teasing, flicking around the edges, and she loses control - covers her own mouth with one hand and reaches down and threads her fingers tightly into his hair with the other. She doesn’t know if he’s willing to give her more but she desperately wants him to - _needs_ his tongue inside of her, needs him to replace at least one of the thousands of disgusting, painful memories with something that she just knows will feel so, _so good._

And then he does it - thank the heavens - he licks and teases around the edges of her for another moment, but then he slides his tongue in deep and strokes and strokes it inside of her, and she gasps so loudly with pleasure and excitement that she even startles herself with the noise, and if it weren’t for her hand muffling it, she’s certain she’d have woken her husband - if not from the volume, from the total unfamiliarity - because he’s certainly never heard her make that sound.

The Thief hums quietly against her core, the vibrations quickly draw her attention, and he flashes his eyes at her in what she can only describe as amusement. She knows she’s being loud - _much too loud_ \- she _must_ be quiet or they’re going to get caught, but at the same time, she’s equally terrified that he might stop, that she’s just ruined this with her pathetic overexcitement. Thankfully though, his tongue doesn’t slip out of her for even a second - he doesn’t miss a beat - just continues to steadily pleasure her despite her ridiculous gasps for air, and she nearly cries when the tight band of anxiety that’s constantly wrapped around her chest suddenly seems to loosen. She manages to collect herself a tiny bit then, to calm her breathing enough to lift her hand and settle her head back against the pillows as he continues to fuck her with quick flicks and swirls of his tongue, and she focuses solely on that, stroking her fingers greedily through his soft, fine hair, doing her best to encourage him while he drives her pleasure up, and up, and _up._

The warm, slippery wetness of his tongue inside of her is divine. She’s never experienced it before tonight, but she quickly decides that she adores the feeling and allows herself to get lost in it. Regina releases her hold on him and brings both hands up to card her fingers into her thick, jet-black hair, carefully tugging at it and submitting herself to euphoria while she starts rolling her hips against his face. It’s so good that she never wants it to end - she’d happily lay in the King’s bed for all of eternity if the Thief would stay between her thighs for it.

He starts to rub her clit then, presses the pads of his calloused fingers to it and massages in tight, smooth little circles, and she’s been trying extremely hard not to make sudden moves, but when he does that, she bucks up against him a little anyway, revels in the stimulation and sparks of pleasure that radiate through her. He dips his tongue in and out of her several times, then goes back to those long, drawn out licks, and she fights a whimper, feels the hot coiling tension of an orgasm building beneath his touch. It's all perfection, exactly what she needs, until he starts to swirl a finger around her entrance, and she extrapolates what’s coming, envisions how he’s about to ram his fingers in her, how he will plunge them roughly into her over and over - and anxiety flashes through her. She thinks of that terrible stretch, the unyielding intrusion, the awful soreness that comes after, and when his fingers graze her there again, she automatically flinches away.

Aside from her husband, Regina has never had someone else put their fingers inside of her, and when Leopold finds a reason for it she has never taken pleasure from it. He does it purely for his own selfish reasons, for those nights when he can't be bothered to find the bottle of oil he uses as lubricant. She's never once been wet on her own for him and she hates the feeling of his fingers in her, dreads it more than doing the deed itself. But she doesn’t want to think of that - the Thief had been making her feel so wonderful and she still wants that, wants him to go back to when he had her arching up against the sheets, so before he can slip even his fingertip inside of her, she pushes his hand away, sends up a silent prayer that he will obey her and hisses, “Know your place. That belongs to the King.”

Apparently he’s not offended in the slightest, because he glances up and throws her a smile that makes her toes curl before he shifts, slips his hands beneath her, lifts her hips up the pillow a little and in the next second she feels him spreading the cheeks of her ass, and then - _oh, what in the realms? -_ the filthy heathen runs his tongue across her rear and starts to tease her _there_. He licks and swirls against the tight muscle, probes lightly over and over, and the hot, slick slide of his tongue is strangely exciting, makes her shake with anticipation of the unknown and flares a desire she didn’t know she had.

The King has never touched her here - aside from impregnating her or masturbating to the sight of her body, he has no use for her. She’s only ever heard horror stories of sexual acts having to do with this part of the anatomy - she honestly didn’t know she could be _pleasured_ here, and she really shouldn’t indulge - if her cunt belongs to the King, arguably so does the rest of her body - but she is so turned on, so frustrated and in need of a release now that she’s nearly in tears with it. She’s completely lust-drunk, practically vibrating with need, and in a moment of weakness she reasons that if the King wanted to have her ass, he’d certainly have taken it by now. He’s had eleven years of free rein to use her however he wants, for fuck’s sake, so, really, in the scheme of things, she reasons that the Thief's exploration of her here might actually be… permissible.

With a shaky breath, Regina gathers her courage, reaches down and replaces his hands with hers, excitement thrumming through her as she spreads the cheeks of her ass for him. The look of pure lust and approval he gives her in return makes her stomach flip, and she bites down hard on her bottom lip just wondering what might come next.

He licks eagerly at her then, gives her more deliberate strokes and deep, probing thrusts of his tongue, and it feels surprisingly good. The muscle there is sensitive, and the warm wetness is nice, similar to how it feels when he uses his tongue at her proper entrance. Now that she’s holding herself open for him, he goes back to rubbing her clit with one hand, and then she feels his finger at her cunt, skimming across and swirling several times to gather the slippery wetness he finds there before he slips it down to press against her ass. She squirms a little, unsure, but he takes his time, liberally spreads her natural lubrication around before - gods - he eases the tip of his finger inside of her. She gasps and her hips jump, but he moves to suck hotly on her clit, and she shudders beneath him, the hot pleasure causing her body to tremor as he continues the gentle intrusion in her ass, slowly working his thick finger in and out, in and out, until he has it fully sheathed in her. Then he starts to pump it in a smooth, easy rhythm, all the while running his hot tongue through her slick folds, and Regina nearly keens with the intense, pleasurable sensation.

“Is this acceptable, Your Majesty?” he whispers so quietly she nearly misses it over the rasp of her own breaths. “Does this bring you pleasure?”

She looks toward the ceiling and nods but doesn’t otherwise answer. His questions are crude and the answers too obvious - from the state of her, he should _know_ both of her answers are _yes._

Regina bites down hard on her lip to keep from moaning, the sensations in her ass and against her clit so acute, the combination totally unfamiliar but _fuck_ , it feels good, and she can’t think, can’t focus on anything else. Her nipples are tight and aching to be touched - or gods, to be _sucked_ \- but she shouldn’t move her hands to sate that need; her husband could wake at any moment and sentence them both to death for the treasonous activities happening right beside him.

And oh, how deliciously treasonous they are.

She glances down to see the Thief suck on his ring finger for a moment, before he carefully adds it to where his middle finger is already sliding into her, and the stretch feels enormous, feels impossible, nearly painful, and she jolts at the sensation, reaches down and grabs at his wrist to get him to stop. She’s certain he can’t fit two fingers in her and she’s had enough of force for tonight, and _every_ night, with her husband. No, Regina has more than earned her Queen’s Crown by accepting an unwelcome intrusion into her body more times than she can count, and she’s not keen on yet another.

She tenses for a fight with the Thief, but at the first sign of her resistance, he immediately pauses, his eyes connect with hers and he withdraws _both_ of his fingers. Confusion washes through her. She’d expected him to at least put up an argument, and to be honest, she’s a little perturbed - what sort of man doesn’t just take what he wants when he’s in the position he’s in? What sort of man doesn’t use the advantage he’s given, just for being a man?

There must be something wrong with him.

But then he brings his mouth back to her ass, and he’s tonguing at her puckered hole again, slicking her up and vigorously rubbing her clit with two skilled, calloused fingers, making her chest shake with repressed gasps and moans. He licks and licks at her, until she can barely breathe, her hands fisted in the sheets as she attempts to restrain her movements, then he runs his tongue across her entrance and up to her clit once more. His slippery fingers are teasing at her rear again then, pressing in so, so slowly, and _gods_ , he’s insanely patient, so gentle that after a few minutes of this thoughtful bliss, it’s _her_ who takes the initiative, wiggles her hips and attempts to scoot down a tiny bit, wanting to take him in deeper, to try that unfamiliar stretch again. She is throbbing inside, her clit swollen - she needs a release and she doesn’t know how to get it this way - but she thinks he knows how to give it to her, and she wants him to, _gods_ , how she wants him to.

“Such a wanton little Queen, aren’t you?” he whispers against the inside of her thigh.

She sees his smirk and vows that she’ll kill him for that later, when he’s not - _ooh, ooh_ \- easing two fingers a little deeper in her ass, when her back isn’t arching and she’s not trembling with lust, her clit throbbing and her core clenching, clenching, _clenching_ on this aching emptiness. Yes, she’ll punish him some other time when she’s not trying to understand why the hell her body is reacting like this to the obscene attention he’s paying her.

“Such a good girl, taking two fingers already,” he praises her on a quiet breath, and she hasn’t been complimented in so long, hasn’t experienced anything other than general disdain during sex that it’s shocking to her ears. It does something to her, this zing of fierce emotion lights her up, tears a quiet moan from her throat that she is unable to muffle even though she tries desperately to do so. The Thief pays the noise no mind though, and even when her husband shifts to roll over, now facing away from them, and her heart positively _stops,_ the Thief doesn’t pause the easy thrusts of his fingers - in and out, in and out - _gods, in-and-fucking-out_. No, the Thief couldn’t seem to care less about the King now - he just drops his head to suck hotly on her clit, his free hand spreading her outer lips open, further exposing the sensitive, swollen bud, then he uses his tongue to rub her until her hips are continuously rolling toward his face, her heart is pounding in triple time, and her arousal is streaming down to slick his busy, pumping fingers.

“I’m going to stretch this perfect, royal arse nice and wide while I rub you off, Your Majesty,” he rasps quietly against her, runs his tongue through her folds and adds, “Try and keep quiet now, yeah?”

She pretends that she’s not nodding frantically, that she doesn’t have her eyes shut tight, her fingers curled fiercely white to prevent herself from flailing. She’s reduced to her baser instincts - thoughts are getting increasingly difficult to form, clouded by this sordid desire coursing through her veins, and everything he’s saying only makes her more confused.

Even more unnerving is that while she’s never had an orgasm with a partner before, it is inevitable that that’s about to change. What he’s doing feels so good, too good - those little flutters are starting inside, and she wants to come - _gods she wants it bad -_ but she’s fighting it, trying to resist because she doesn’t want this to end, doesn’t want to deal with the fallout of whatever the hell she is allowing to happen. But she’s going to lose this battle with her body at any second, she can already feel the hot, electric tingle in her clit spreading, intensifying - _fuck,_ she’s so close - and then she’s going to have to deal with the fact that she's let a stranger touch her, pleasure her, put his mouth on her, his fingers inside of her - _gods_ \- and she’s not ready - _no, no, she’s not ready_ \- will never be ready for that.

But _fuck_ , he just makes her feel so good.

He does something with his fingers then, something that spreads her, stretches her ass right to her limit, then he thrusts his fingers deep and she gasps. He’s just hit some sort of sweet spot inside of her, somewhere that feels incredibly sensitive, and suddenly he’s pumping his fingers quickly, focusing right on it. She arches hard and his other fingers flurry across her clit, and - _gods_ \- it only takes an instant for the combination to overwhelm her. She can’t stop her body from spiraling up - _up!_ \- cannot hold back the molten rush of pleasure that flares from her core and causes her inner muscles to contract in little rippling waves. She’s coming - _fuck, oh gods -_ she’s gushing, coming harder than she ever has in her life and there’s - _ohhh_ \- there is absolutely nothing she can do but twist her hands in the silk sheets, clench her teeth, and pray to the gods that she doesn’t make a sound while her body shatters to glorious pieces beneath the talented hands and mouth of the Thief.

When she finally comes down, her soaked, swollen core is still throbbing with aftershocks, and she doesn’t - can’t - move. She’s trembling all over, so she takes a moment to breathe while his tongue makes soft, gentle strokes across her over-sensitive clit. His fingers are still buried deep inside of her ass, stretching her, and now there’s this light burning sensation, these little contractions that she can’t control still working his thick digits which, consequently, don’t appear to be in any hurry to leave her. She’s entirely caught up in a dreamy fog, where every sensation feels utterly lovely, so she just lays quietly and accepts it, closes her eyes, and wonders how much thicker his cock might be, how different it might feel inside of her, and nearly mourns the fact that she’ll never have the pleasure of experiencing that.

When she finally gains some semblance of awareness, she notices that by some miracle Leopold is still asleep, and she’s never been more grateful, because reality is seeping in and it’s a worrisome one. She’s quickly realizing that she’s just thoroughly enjoyed that debauchery, and worse still, that she not only _wanted_ every second of it, but she may even want it _again,_ and oh, there is no circumstance where that’s possible.

It is no secret to anyone that Regina is constantly watched, that she isn’t even allowed to have friends. Every acquaintance she makes is heavily scrutinized, evaluated, and approved by the King, and oftentimes her mother, too. Her husband may not hold much interest in her outside of her bedroom duties, but he’s made it very clear that no one else is allowed to take interest in her either. So she’s learned the hard way that when she connects with someone, it’s only a matter of time before they are expelled from her life. It’s gone on too long and too consistently for her to even try to reach out to anyone anymore, so something like this, where attention is lavished on her and she even feels _pleasure?_ Oh, it will never be allowed. No, the Queen is destined to a life of solitude - aside from her stepdaughter she keeps no current company and _never_ will.

This is nothing more than a fluke and it will never happen again. Besides, after all the havoc and hell she’s rained down on this earth, she’s well-aware that she certainly didn’t deserve this - the gods are not likely to smile on her twice.

The Thief shifts between her thighs then, and carefully starts to ease his fingers from the incredibly tight grip her body still has on him. To her extreme embarrassment, a little whine of pleasurable-protest slips from her throat before she can stop it, and he huffs a silent laugh against her thigh in response. Regina’s temper fires up - her defensive nature always at the ready - but then, _gods,_ he runs his tongue through her slick folds one last time, gives her clit a little suck that makes her tremor with sensitivity, then he uses both of his large hands to spread the cheeks of her ass wide while he stares down unabashedly and murmurs, “Fuck, I wish I could make you gape properly for me.”

Her already flushed neck and face burn with a combination of arousal and embarrassment, but he is off the bed and padding silently back down the secret passageway before she can say anything - before she can argue, or reprimand, or inform him that this will certainly _never_ happen again.

It turns out she doesn’t have cause for concern though, for the Queen doesn’t see the Thief again after that. He vanishes like he did all the other times she saw him, fades into the dark corridor and she doesn’t so much as catch a glimpse of him on castle grounds again (no matter how hard she looks). Regina’s body once more belongs to her husband, who appears none the wiser that she actually enjoyed a night of secret passion in his bed, and somehow it slips her mind to tell him about it.

The travesty of the experience though, is that no matter how hard she tries to hold onto it, the memory is quickly pushed from her thoughts, consumed by the daily cruelty she calls her wretched, pointless life, and it isn’t long before she can’t be sure if it even happened in the first place. It takes even less time for her to convince herself that even if it did happen, she surely must have imagined such pleasure, such gentleness from the mysterious Thief. No one in this realm would be willing to come so close, to give such sweetness to a monster like her, and there’s no way that was anything more than her imagination running wild.


	6. Helping the Queen

“Help.”

The Queen is half-turned toward him, her face angled down, her body shaking with each repressed sob, but she is positively golden in the glow of the firelight as the tears stream down her face. The dark liner of her makeup has tracked down her cheeks, her eyes and nose are red and swollen, and there are angry, red, raised lines that crisscross her neck - scratch marks from where she fought so furiously with her necklace. Some of her hair is in her eyes now, having escaped from her high bun when she yanked off the crown that clearly wasn’t hers, and a few waving, onyx tresses are particularly rebellious, cascading across one brow and further where they dare to brush haphazardly against her jawline.

She is nothing short of stunning in this moment of brokenness.

Robin stares up at the Queen from where he tripped and landed on all fours on the floor, still shackled to the chair by his ankles, his wrists shackled too, but he barely notices his restraints. Even if he wasn’t bound, he swears he couldn’t move, that he wouldn’t even try, because kneeling here, looking up at her the way he is right now, well, he can’t even _breathe_.

He has never seen the Queen look quite so open, so vulnerable, so… _human_ before, and though he does not enjoy seeing her in pain, he must admit she is more captivating to him now than ever before.

_Help._

The word reverberates in his ears as if she’d screamed it, though she had barely whispered it loud enough for him to hear her, and if this were any other time, if her dark, chocolate-brown eyes held even an ounce less of desperation, he’s sure he’d be able to balk at her request. He has no idea how the hell she expects _him_ to aid _her_ \- he’s the prisoner, for Christ’s sake, and she’s the Queen - the Queen who’s been torturing him for weeks, no less. But she’s staring at him with those big, expressive eyes, and she just looks so small, so utterly broken - like she really doesn’t really expect him to do anything - and the longer he looks at her, the more he just feels something inside of him _shift_.

If this had happened even the slightest bit differently, Robin knows he would’ve already fired off a dozen flippant comments, he’d have found a way to taunt or tease his way through such an uncomfortable moment. He’s nothing if not cavalier, and even now, his first instinct is to make some sort of silly remark to lighten the mood. But as he studies her, it suddenly occurs to him that maybe, just maybe, she’s a bit of a prisoner here too, and there is absolutely _nothing_ amusing about that.

Sure, the Queen’s shackles look quite a bit different than his - it’s difficult to look past all those fancy dresses, glittering diamonds, and of course, that wicked temper of hers - but he thinks he can see her unfortunate position now, though she tries valiantly to hide it. He can see how the crown she wears might be nothing more than a cage, how the weight of that golden wedding band around her left ring finger might be far worse than any irons that would bite into her wrists.

He wishes he could say he was surprised, but he’s not. He’s a bit disappointed in himself for not seeing it sooner, for not realizing what’s driven her mad with rage, what’s turned her into this person that everyone takes such sick pleasure in calling _evil_ and _monster_ and perhaps most ironically, _privileged_.

Everyone knows that she was barely more than a child when she was married off to Leopold, knows that the old man has never lost his obsession for his first wife, and from what Robin has seen of the King, he is positive that bastard has been anything but _kind_ to her. That, combined with the rumors he’s heard and what he’s witnessed for himself, well, he's certain now that her marriage was never one of her choice.

If he had to guess, he’d wager her barmy mother forced her into all of this. They say that woman’s as mad as a hatter, that she’s cruel and wicked, too - and even if the Queen had wanted to marry old Leopold at some point, it most certainly didn’t turn out to have a fairytale ending. Tonight is all the evidence Robin needs to prove that.

The firelight flickers across the Queen’s face and makes her features appear soft, undeniably elegant _,_ but it does nothing to mask the tortured expression in her eyes, and he wonders if she really does need his help. Could it be that she’s _honestly_ asking him to save her right now, and _Christ_ , just what might happen if he doesn’t?

He sits back on his heels and does his very best to be respectful, to keep his eyes up and not rake his gaze over her body. He remembers every detail of her - it’s been two years, but she is perfection and you don’t forget a woman like her - but she is also hurting, vulnerable and asking for his help, so he forces himself to keep his eyes strictly on her face as he tells her, “I’m at your service, Your Majesty.”

She gets extremely skittish then, dare he say _frightened_ even - her expression changes quickly, her brows furrow hard, and her tears come faster while she swipes clumsily at the hair in her face as her eyes dart nervously around the room.

When after several seconds she doesn’t say anything further and she doesn’t move - not even to cover herself - he grows concerned. She’s not acting right - she’s definitely not her confident, cruel self, but this anxious inaction is beyond odd for her - and he’s not sure what to do.

After another few awkward seconds of silence though, he decides he has to do _something._ She can’t stand there like that all night - she’ll likely freeze to death against the cold stone, and he’s certainly not doing any good by kneeling here like a loaf-about. The only thing he can think of is to give her a gentle nudge, just to get her moving, in the hopes that it might spur her out of this strange state she’s fallen into. He wonders if perhaps she doesn’t know _what_ she needs - if she is too far lost to her turmoil or too shocked by his presence to figure out what to do next, so perhaps if he gives her a bit of guidance, that’ll be enough to help her, just as she’s requested of him.

He hopes so - he doesn’t know what the bloody hell else to do.

Robin quietly clears his throat. “You’re going to catch a chill, if you haven’t already.”

He is about to suggest she don her robe again when she glances down at the floor and gives the light blue material a glare that is so full of repulsion that he changes tactics on the fly and continues, “How about we get you settled in a nice, warm blanket?”

She shakes her head in the negative though, then drops her eyes to the floor, and when she hesitantly runs her trembling hands down over her stomach he watches carefully. He follows the path of her soft, delicate fingers as she trails them lightly over her ribs, her navel, the tops of her thighs, then smooths them around the sides of her legs and slowly drags them back up to her hips. She looks up at him then with a look of disgust on her face, and he knows - _fuck -_ he knows why she won’t get dressed. She needs bathing, she’s got to get that bastard’s touch, his _mess_ off her - she won’t be able to rest until every trace is gone.

“You’ve got a basin and cloth yeah?”

She nods once - just a slight tip of her chin - but says nothing.

“Bring it here. And a blanket too.”

The Queen stares at him for a moment, just stares intently, like she might be looking right through him, perhaps reconsidering her request for help, and he doesn’t like that. She’s a ruddy mess, inside and out, and regardless of what she’s done to him, he’s decided he will help her because he truly believes she needs it.

It’s like she’s a different person right now - she’s nothing like the terrible Queen who has been torturing him, who’s been playing games with his head and laughing at his misery while she orders her guards to torture his friends - no. This is a woman who has been broken all the way through, whose heart has been ripped right out of her chest, and she’s standing here asking him to take it and to make it all better, she’s asking him to _help her_. So, while he might not be a good man, while he might be an outlaw, a thief, _and_ a trespassing rat, right now that doesn’t mean shit. He certainly knows how to treat a woman with respect, and _this_ woman needs every bit of it he can spare tonight.

“I’m going to help you,” he reassures, then repeats softly, “Bring the basin over, and your favorite quilt.”

She narrows her eyes, and he holds up his shackled hands, shakes them a bit to make them rattle in an attempt to remind her that he can’t leave his current space, then gives her a small, lopsided smile before he adds, “I’ll wait right here.”

Robin awkwardly moves back to sit in his chair, limited by his ankle chains, then he folds his hands as normally as possible in his lap while he waits for her to make the next move.

The Queen gets to her tasks faster than he expected. She’s apparently got some sort of system worked out, because when she brings it to him, the basin is already filled with fresh, clean water, and she’s got a little basket with clean wash rags, a rather rough-feeling sponge, and a freshly wrapped bar of rose-petal soap within. She sets it next to him, then pads into her bedroom and returns a few moments later draped in a large, dark green blanket, and when she’s near enough that he can identify the rich texture of the fabric, he nearly groans over the fact that she has just wrapped herself up in some incredibly soft, obscenely luxurious pashmina wool.

She’s breathtaking.

He swallows thickly and is proud of himself when he raises his hand and, instead of reaching for her, he successfully diverts it and rubs it over his jaw. Even at her most downtrodden, standing here riddled with despair, the Queen is _still,_ hands down, the fairest woman he’s ever set eyes on. Her husband is a blind, cack-handed fool for not realizing that, for not treasuring her, for not treating her like the bloody goddess she so clearly is.

 _Christ_.

He’s not really sure how to go about this, and he’s feeling a bit nervous now, because even though he’s had the pleasure of bathing _with_ several lovely women, that was decidedly different than what he’s about to do. The only experience he has that even comes close to this is that time he shared with _her,_ two years ago, but even that was different, because he’d had different motivations then, and it had led to something that he is certain won’t be happening tonight.

Even so, he finds that he really does want to help, that he wants to get this _right_ for the Queen. After the night she’s had, he wants to give her a little faith back, to show her that not all men are total scum, or at least, _he’s not_ \- and the only way he figures he can accomplish that is by being respectful, and, well, useful.

She is standing quietly just out of arm’s reach, twisting the fingers of her right hand, waiting for him to do something, looking for all the world like she wishes she could evaporate. She’s clearly nervous too, and there’s no sense in dragging this out - she’s likely to change her mind if he keeps dallying - and he’s not sure he’d ever forgive himself if he failed at such a seemingly simple task. So with a deep breath, he takes one of the soft cloths - that sponge is much too rough for her delicate skin - lathers it up nicely with the incredibly good smelling soap, and with as much courage as he can muster - _steady now_ \- he bids her to come a bit closer.

“Your foot, Milady,” he requests, patting the seat of the chair to the outside of his thigh, and to his surprise, she complies without question. More interesting still, is that she doesn’t even correct his improper use of _Milady_ instead of _Your Majesty_ , which he honestly hadn’t meant, he’d just forgotten the formality of their circumstance.

“I’ll start at your ankle and work my way up, yeah?” He wants to be sure she understands what’s going to happen, that _he_ has understood what she wants from him and isn’t taking undue advantage of her. “If you feel any discomfort, any unease in the slightest,” he pauses to take the hand she’s not using to hold up her blanket and relocates it to the side of his neck, “You tell me to stop, or give me a good pinch, alright?”

She gazes into his eyes for a long, drawn-out moment while he looks steadily back, unflinching, but then she frowns and asks, “After everything I have done to you, why… why’re you going along with this?”

Robin tips his head to the side and gives the cloth a small squeeze before he tells her simply, “Let’s just say it’s because you’ve asked me nicely.”

“That’s it?” She looks bewildered, but her hand is compliant against his neck, curled almost sweetly around the back of it, her cold fingertips rubbing just a bit through the fine hairs, and it gives him confidence that by being truthful with her, he’s handling this the right way.

He shrugs. “That’s it.”

She still looks confused, but she nods then, and he sets to work without another word.

Robin runs the cloth lightly up and down the Queen’s left leg, from ankle to calf, to knee, to hip, working methodically, focusing on the task, trying very hard to ignore the fact that her body is lovely, and warm, and wet, and the more he washes her, the more _all of that_ she becomes. It’s difficult, truly, but he forces himself to think of _why_ they are in this position to begin with, of _why_ he’s using his shackled hands to bathe her, of _what_ he’s wiping off her, and for the most part, it helps.

That is, it helps until he gets both of her legs cleaned up, and then he starts thinking about the alluring planes of her stomach and the perfect contours of her more sensitive parts that he really needs to tend to. He wants to do it, _gods,_ he wants to be a decent bloke and continue to help her, but his perspective is slipping and if he doesn’t take a minute, he’s not sure he can do it. His imagination keeps struggling to get away from him - he’s surrounded by the scent of her, her soft fingers are rubbing lightly at the back of his neck, threading through his hair, tugging gently - almost as if she wants him to come closer - and every time he dares to look at all of her damp, smooth skin that is mere inches from his face, all he can think about is running his tongue across her. He can feel the heat of her body and he imagines kissing her everywhere, sucking on her thighs, her hips, sinking his teeth in lightly and making her forget the first part of this evening ever fucking happened.

 _Fuck_.

His mind is running wild with lust for her now and it’s wrong, he knows it is and he wants to stop, _will_ stop these inappropriate thoughts. He knows she doesn’t need him drooling over her, she needs his respect, but _gods,_ he just can’t shake the idea that he ought to ask her if she wants him to help her out the same way he did two years ago.

Cause he absolutely will.

Only this time, there will be no muffled breaths, no bitten back moans of pleasure - no. This time they’re decidedly alone, and oh, he will do everything in his power to make her shake, and writhe, and scream his bloody name as she comes undone with ecstasy.

He licks his lips just thinking about it, feels an excited flush heat his cheeks and has to duck his head under the guise of re-lathering the cloth to hide it. This woman affects him like no other - somehow, she gets under his skin, what with her gorgeous, silky dark hair, her pretty, big brown eyes, that elusive but satisfying smile, and this flawless, golden complexion.

As he starts to work his way up under the blanket so he can bathe her hips, his thoughts drift, and he thinks of how he now knows that there’s more to her than just what she allows the world to see. He wonders what it would be like if she ever gave him a real shot, if he’d be able to break through this stony exterior of hers, and if he did, what it would feel like to experience her affection.

If she _loves_ half as hard as she _hates_ \- which he sincerely thinks she does - he doubts he could ever be worthy of her.

Regardless, he’d love to get her in a real bath - can’t stop thinking of how nice it’d be to sink deep down into a tub of steaming hot water with her, how all that thick raven hair might feel gathered up in his hands, full of sudsy soap as he washed it for her. He thinks of how he’d hold her with his arms wrapped securely around her smaller frame, how his legs would bracket hers beneath the hot water while he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses to her shoulders and sucked hotly on the side of her neck, how he’d leave at least a dozen love bites there so that everyone would see that she had been with him, and that he couldn’t get enough of her.

He imagines how she’d lean into his touches, how she might even turn around in the tub, how she’d fit her thick, luscious red lips over his and slip her tongue into his mouth. He thinks of how her full, slippery tits and hard little nipples would press up against his chest, how her toned thighs would feel flexing beneath his hands, how her slick, naked body would slide against his as they splashed water all over the stone floor and ruined her expensive rugs without a fucking care in the world and –

_Shit._

_Shit-shit-shit._

He absolutely _cannot_ continue this train of thought - _he-can-not!_ \- but with her standing in front of him clothed only in a blanket, the smell of exotic roses filling his nose and her warm, bare thigh beneath his hands, well, it’s bloody-well difficult not to.

She’s calmed substantially under his touch though - her head is bowed, her eyes closed, and she’s even parted her lips a bit as she takes steady, measured breaths in and out, in and out. It gives him a confidence boost, and on the next pass upward, he slips his hands under the blanket and runs the cloth over her stomach, then works it down carefully, just until he gets where it’s about to be quite inappropriate, where he finally breaks the drawn-out silence.

“Shall I continue?” he asks, “Or would you prefer to do this part?”

Her fingers gently stroke the back of his neck, and when she whispers a barely intelligible, “Please, just... just keep going,” he does as she bids.

He runs the cloth over each of her hips and down across the crease of her thigh, then skates further inside the blanket and curves around her body to smooth over the round swells of her arse as he makes careful, deliberate strokes, and _Christ,_ her reaction to it is like setting fire to dry kindling. Over the course of a few careful movements, she’s suddenly breathing very quickly, her chest rising and falling swiftly, her flat stomach quivering, her hand at his neck curling hard, her finely manicured nails - a lovely beige color this evening - digging in sharply. She’s somehow drifted closer to him too, so he’s settled back in the chair with her leaning so far forward, she’s nearly on his lap.

Not that he’d mind if she _were_ on his lap.

But no, _no_ , he’s got to focus, he’s got to play this straight, because he said he’d help her, and that’s what he’s going to do. He’s going to get her all cleaned up, and bundled up in her blanket, and then, he doesn’t know what the hell else, but he knows it doesn’t have anything to do with satisfying _his_ fantasies.

Robin runs the washcloth over her lower back, then dips it down between her arse cheeks and her breathing stutters, her chest rising and falling swiftly as her hand clutches at the back of his head. He thinks she’s about to scold him, to tell him off for touching somewhere he maybe shouldn’t have, but then suddenly she’s shifting, setting her knee on the chair instead of her foot, and she’s bringing her other knee up while he’s dropping the cloth over the arm of the chair and making an awkward, hands-bound grab for her hips, because - _fuck_ \- now she’s straddling his lap, and - _oh hell_ \- this is probably not a good idea.

But her weight settled on top of him like this? Well, it definitely _feels_ good - it feels like bloody heaven.

“Can you just…” she rasps, takes several unsteady breaths, tucks her head in tightly against the crook of his neck and tries again, “Can we… do _this_ for a while?” Her warm breath ghosts against his skin and, as one of her hands clutches at his shirt, he honestly wonders if she’s ever had a proper hug in her entire life.

 _Christ,_ that’s fucked up.

“Er, yeah, of course,” he murmurs, stunned for a moment at how much his own heart is starting to ache for her.

Robin twists his hands around, trying to find a way to hold her close, but with his wrists shackled together, it’s just not possible. A thought hits him and he decides to press his luck on it - if she’s going to push the boundaries tonight, he ought to, too.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to take off my irons,” he bargains. “Just the ones on my wrists so I might put my arms around you?”

“I shouldn’t,” she shakes her head against him without lifting it, and he gets it, truly. He knew it was a long shot and understands the risk she’d be taking by doing it, because it’s a risk he fully intends on taking advantage of at some point. So he simply nods his understanding and does his best to move his hands into some sort of decent position to hold her.

But then she says quietly, “But um, the pins in my hair… they might be useful for someone who was skilled in lockpicking.”

“Oh?” he smiles in triumph, starts to move his hands up and she nods, but then warns, “ _Just_ your hands, Thief.”

He smiles genuinely, is about to give her a bit of sarcasm when that sad, defeated tone of hers returns and she mutters, “Don’t make me regret this.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Robin pulls a long golden pin from her hair that allows a few strands from the back to cascade down - _gods she’s got gorgeous hair_ \- then he proceeds to free his wrists from their iron cages before presenting her with the now slightly bent hairpin.

She leans back just enough to take it from him, and for the first time in what feels like ages, he can see her face. He can't help but smirk when he catches her expression and she's giving him a rather disdainful look as she studies her ruined accessory, a pout firmly in place on her thick lips. His eyes get a bit stuck on that feature of hers - gods, her lips are tempting, so full and smooth, not the least bit chapped - and he takes a deep breath to calm himself, licks his own lips in an attempt of reining in the overwhelming urge to kiss her that is so strong, his hands have somehow already settled along the sides of her neck, his thumbs carefully stroking along her jaw. And he shouldn’t, he _can’t_ kiss her, but he really, _really_ wants to.

Steady now, mate.

* * *

She’s not sure what encouraged her to climb onto the Thief’s lap like this, but now that Regina is here, she’s not sure if she’ll ever be able to bring herself to leave.

He just feels so warm, so solid, so _steady_. His touch makes her ache inside, makes her want for things she'll never have, makes her curl her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and dig in, seeking purchase in the thick, broad muscles of his chest. She has an unfamiliar sense of longing, a desire to fuse herself to him, knows he wouldn’t allow it even if it were possible, but _gods_ , he feels so good beneath her, so warm and safe that she’d give anything if he’d just hold her close for a few seconds, if he'd keep his mouth shut, and his judgement to himself, and just shelter her from the firestorm of emotions that’s threatening to destroy her from the inside out.

She lets him take his shackles off - or rather, she gives him the idea about using her hairpin - and knows she's making a grave mistake well before she does it. But his offer of being able to hold her properly is much too tempting to pass up, and even if he were to shove her to the floor and escape his anklets, she's not sure she'd mind at the moment. At least hunting him down would divert her attention away from the grief that's threatening to split her wretched heart in half while her self-disgust withers away what is left of her mind.

Fuck, how she hates herself.

He hands her back the hairpin, ruined of course - he’s _such_ a brute - and then for one heart-pounding moment, he dares to cup her face. He is gentle, his touch is full of care and his calloused fingertips lightly caress the sides of her neck as he sweeps the pads of his thumbs along her jawline. The touch is sweet, intimate, it is overwhelming in itself but she feels safe, almost content staring into his eyes. The feeling is fleeting however, because then his gaze drifts down to her lips, and when his tongue slips out to wet his own, a wave of unease jitters through her, tears well again and all she can think is, _how very typical._

She should not have expected anything better of him. Men only ever have one goal in mind, only ever think of themselves. She will never be more than just a piece of meat to him - just another a story around a campfire, another notch in his belt.

Ornamental. Inessential.

 _Interchangeable_.

Her tears spill over and the Thief’s eyes jump back up to hers so fast that it startles her. She hates to admit it, but he looks, for lack of a better description, completely ashamed, and his guilt lessens the tightness in her chest, backs her off the ledge just a smidge.

“Uh, right then,” he clears his throat, reaches to the side of her and dunks a new cloth in the wash basin.

He continues to look sufficiently chastened, which is exceedingly odd considering that she hasn’t said a single word to him. And when he brings the cloth to her face, instead of some other, much more appealing area of her body, she is more confused than ever.

Why didn't he take the opportunity presented before him? Why didn't he go in for that kiss, or grab for her breasts, or slip his hand between her legs? She doesn't have any fight in her to stop him, and he _must_ know that, must see it.

He starts to remove her heavy makeup with these easy, careful swipes, passing the cloth gently over her forehead, eyes, and cheeks, rubbing gently where her liner has tracked down her face, and Regina feels the unease in her chest morph into this odd, soft warmth that flutters down to radiate through her belly and further south still. He rinses the cloth and repeats the action several times, washes her neck and chin, up and into her hairline, even behind her ears, a little crease in his forehead as he focuses on the task at hand, a small, satisfied smile forming on his lips as more and more of the heavy makeup is removed. His touch is patient and tender, never rough, never rasping. The Thief takes far more time on her face than anywhere else, even taking care to swipe along the edges of her nose and coaxing her eyes shut so he can get all the shadow from her lids, pausing every now and then to whisper things like, _would you mind t_ _ipping your chin up for me?_ and _that's got to feel a bit better now, yeah?_

Affection, she thinks - _wonders_ \- is this what affection feels like?

Belatedly, it occurs to her that he had simply _looked_ at her lips - he hadn’t actually tried to kiss her, so she’s not sure what had her so worked up. He had obviously wanted to kiss her, but he hadn’t leaned in, hadn’t touched her inappropriately, hadn’t even said anything untoward. He had a perfect opportunity to take advantage of her, to take what he wants instead of _asking_ her what she wants, and he just... didn't take it. He didn't even try.

This Thief is some sort of freak.

He draws the cloth down her neck, across the tops of her shoulders that are exposed, then dunks it in the basin again before she feels his hand on top of hers at where she has gathered the seam of the blanket closed around her chest.

His voice is calm and controlled when he speaks.

“Open up.”

She doesn’t.

He gives her hand a light squeeze, then releases it, “You’ve asked me to help, Milady, and I intend to finish what we’ve started.”

Again, she does not open the blanket.

It’s not that she doesn’t want him to continue bathing her. She does. She even _needs_ him to keep going, to do what she pathetically cannot seem to do for herself tonight. But it’s so difficult to accept his help, it's so embarrassing, humiliating, and weak, and –

“Open.” He’s frowning now, and his voice has taken on a firm tone this time, though somehow, he still sounds patient and calm, not at all condescending or bullying - not at all like her husband.

Or her mother, for that matter.

“But you’re going to look at me,” she accuses, envisioning the way his brazen eyes will rove unabashedly over her naked breasts, the way he’ll ogle her sex. She doesn’t care that he’s seen her naked before, that he knows exactly what she looks like with intimate detail, or that he’s already had his hands on her thighs and ass tonight.

She just feels angry.

Angry with _herself_ for getting aroused over the thought of him looking at her, for the traitorous way her nipples are already peaking with excitement, with _hope_ and with _interest_. She is _so_ attracted to him - embarrassingly so - and she _knows_ that she is, but she shouldn’t be aroused tonight, not after what she’s been through. She can’t seem to help it though, she can already feel that familiar heat simmering in her core, and she has to admit that this is not the first time that she has craved the Thief’s touch.

Indeed, there have been nights, many nights, where she has laid in her bed and thought about the things he once did to her while her own hands mimicked the pleasurable movements, but _gods_ , she should not think about him that way. She should not want him - not now and not ever - but especially not with the repulsive scent of her husband still clinging to her.

“Well, it is true that I’m going to have a look at you,” he nods, and she tightens her grip on her blanket, a scowl distorting her features before he adds, “And I’m going to touch you,” her breath hitches. “But I’m not about to do either of those things in the way you expect, I think.”

Her teeth are clenched when she grits out, “Explain yourself.”

“I’m going to bathe the rest of you,” he shrugs, then gently lays his hand on top of hers again, and this time when he squeezes, he pulls ever so slightly, and she allows it - _shit_ \- she lets him to do it, to peel back the blanket just a little. “I intend to wash _all_ of you, because you have asked it of me, and I’m not planning to leave my task half-finished. Rest assured that I won’t be looking at you or touching you in any way that you haven’t asked me to.”

She doesn’t know what in the realms possesses her indignation to flare so hotly, but she _does_ know that she’s beyond mortified when she suddenly snaps, “You really expect me to believe that you’re not getting off on this? That you’re not attracted to me?”

He smiles then - _god he’s handsome_ \- a blush reddens his dimpled, scruffy cheeks and he ducks his head for a moment before he brings the soft, wet cloth up to her chest, where he drapes it as he continues to peel back one edge of her blanket, until he has fully exposed her left breast to the cool room air.

“Oh, I am _undeniably_ attracted to you.” His voice is a low rumble that makes her core heat, and she swears she can feel her pulse pounding in her clit. He runs the cloth up over her shoulder and then down her arm, before bringing it back up to slowly swirl it over her clavicle. The bottom edge just barely brushes the top of her already pebbled nipple, and she fights hard not to arch, though her body breaks into goosebumps and she shivers in spite of herself. “But this is about my _intentions_ , not my attraction.”

“Your intentions,” she repeats, still irritated, even as she licks her lips and stares at the stubble along his jaw. She tries to focus on steadying her breathing - forces herself _not to_ wonder what his beard might feel like against her skin instead of this stupid cloth - as he repeats the motions on her other side, washing her shoulder and arm before finishing the upper part of her chest.

“That’s right,” he drags the cloth slowly down between her breasts then, chasing the rivulets of water that have long since made their way south, running it all the way to her navel then back up. Using the cloth as a barrier, he cups her right breast, and Regina wants _so badly_ to press her chest into his hand, but somehow she resists, and thankfully he doesn’t linger, doesn’t knead or tease. He simply passes the cloth over her like he did everywhere else, then switches sides and does the same with her left breast, before he tugs the blanket down from her upper body entirely so that he can wash her back.

She shivers as her damp skin connects with the cool air, and she swears she hears him whisper, “Sorry,” against her collarbone, though she doesn’t reply, and she doesn’t dare ask him to repeat it. She’s too distracted, unsure what to do with herself as he reaches around her, his warm breath against her neck, his chest bumping against her breasts and sensitive, damp nipples - _gods._ She wants to shift forward, to lean into him, to maybe put her hands on his face or wrap her arms around his neck, but she resists, knowing that the action will confuse him, because just the idea of it is sure as hell confusing her.

He finishes washing her back with a few long, slow strokes across her shoulder blades, then refreshes the cloth and she starts to think that she can handle this. She's nearly convinced herself that she can ignore the glorious feeling of their bodies so close, that she’s not affected by the shared heat between them, when he urges her to lean back just enough for him to get his hand between them. She does so without thinking - just _feeling -_ as he runs the cloth across her stomach, then lower still, lower, _lower_ , between her thighs and –

Frantically, she makes a grab for his wrist.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” she snaps, her fingers viciously biting into his wrist.

“I’m doing exactly as you’ve asked me,” he reminds her calmly, not moving a muscle. “I’m helping you.”

“But that- this- _that_ …” She loses her train of thought to a rapid throbbing of heat in her core that is elicited from just _knowing_ how close his fingers are to sliding through her folds and rubbing across her clit.

The only barrier between them now is the wet cloth, and the vivid memory of how he once teased and pleasured her is powerful, takes her off guard and makes her press down against his hand. He must take that as permission to continue, because in the next moment he rubs the cloth against her center, and a soft moan tries to rise in her throat, but - _thank the gods_ \- at the last second, she manages to stifle it by biting the inside of her cheek so hard that she draws blood.

The pain quickly brings her back to her senses, but at the same time, it evokes a wave of embarrassment, triggers her nerves and she panics, clutches at his neck with her other hand and ends up snapping, “That belongs to the King.”

“Does it?” he freezes his movements, brows raised, then he frowns, annoyance crosses his features, and he snips, “Well then, he ought to take better care of it.”

Fury rises within her, she drives her nails even harsher into his wrist, but he doesn’t flinch.

“How dare you?” she snarls, “Who do you think you are to insult _me?!_ ”

“Who am I? I’m the one who’s helping you,” he says firmly, “And if you want me to continue, maybe you should remember that.”

She’s livid now, her face red with rage, her fingers gripping his wrist even tighter, white with the force of it, but still, she does not push him away. “You– you’re nothing but a second-rate bandit. A thieving peasant!” she spits. “You have no right to tell me what to do!” Regina lifts her chin in pure, royal arrogance and growls, “I am the Queen. _You_ should remember _that!”_

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he obstinately holds her gaze. “I doubt I could ever forget it.”

She’s shocked into silence. Never in her life has someone of his class ever been so openly and carelessly insolent with her.

Worse still, is that nothing ever seems to intimidate him. Nothing shakes him, nothing breaks that cocky, devil-may-care attitude, and no matter what she does, he really, _truly_ isn’t afraid of her.

There must be something wrong with him.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’s figured out that there’s something wrong with _her._

Regina stiffens in his arms, bracing for his inevitable rejection - no one has ever seen her for what she is and not been disappointed. She is never what they expected, never what they wanted, _never enough._

But then he surprises her - he huffs a breath and his hand starts moving between her legs again, wiping away the remaining mess her husband so callously left earlier, and she releases his wrist in favor of wrapping her fingers around the top of his shoulder. She didn’t expect him to continue - thought for sure he was about to shove her right off his lap - and she has to shut her eyes to stop the sudden tears of relief from falling.

She hates that his touch brings her comfort - worse still, that she wants it, _likes it_. She knows he’s only doing this because she asked him to and she wishes he wasn’t, wishes he had taken the initiative on his own, that he’d wanted to put his hands on her, because it would make her so much less pathetic.

But who would want to touch a monster?

She swears that she won’t cry anymore, that she won’t be _weak_. She tries to focus on the anger that’s still racing through her veins, the embarrassment and confusion that has saturated her blackened heart and caused her temper to simmer up, up, _up._ But it’s nearly impossible to stay aggravated when his touch is so gentle, and his eyes are so focused, so intense - respectful and yet still so openly appreciative _-_ hot enough against her skin that she can nearly feel the burn.

It only takes a few moments for him to quietly and methodically complete the job she had so desperately begged of him, but it’s long enough for her to know that she’s not ready for this to be over yet.

Because without realizing it, he’s given her a taste of how his touch, his words, his gaze can soothe away the revulsion and humiliation that her husband always leaves her with. He has provided reassurance that she isn’t something completely unpalatable in comparison to the perfection that once was _Eva._ He makes her feel clean, makes her feel accepted, makes her _wanted_. 

She doesn't know how he's managed to do all of that, but she is desperate for him to give her more - she suddenly craves it, _needs it_ like she needs her next breath.

And he will give it to her.


	7. Blurring the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - mild dubious consent

“There, all done,” the Thief murmurs, setting the cloth in the basin as if his task is over, as if he gets to decide when they’re through here.

And no, that simply won’t do.

Regina purses her lips and settles her weight more firmly on his lap as she tells him, “You’re done when I say you’re done.”

It’s a command, quiet but clear, and he frowns, his blue eyes flickering upward to connect with hers in the dim light. He places his hands on her hips, then challenges carefully, “Have I not done a satisfactory job, Your Majesty?”

“I didn’t say anything about satisfaction,” she drawls. “I said you’re not done.”

He raises his brows and gives her hips a squeeze as he asks, “Oh? What else would you have me do?”

What else indeed?

Regina’s heart pounds fast as she smooths her hands from his neck to rest lightly against his chest, her fingers idly playing with the laces on his cotton shirt as she contemplates her next move. She knows what she wants, but she also knows that she’s already pushing her luck and she should not tempt fate for a second time with him.

It’s just that it's been _so long_ since she’s even wanted to be touched like this, and he is so handsome, and he’s, well, he's looking at her like he doesn’t really mind having her on his lap. He's not even flinching away as her hand experimentally ventures down to skate across the curve of his ribs - he's not acting repulsed, not looking terrified like everyone else does on the rare occasion they accidentally come into contact with her, and it's so late tonight - no one is going to interrupt them at this hour. So, if he's willing to do it, if he doesn't shy away when she touches him like this, why _can't_ she push for a bit more, why can't she get just a little _something_ for herself tonight?

What harm could it possibly do?

His breath catches as her fingers stroke along his side, and she watches his face intently, studies the way he closes his eyes and how his Adam's apple bobs when he swallows. When he doesn’t shove her away, doesn’t seem disgusted by her, it emboldens her, and she decides to try a little experiment. She waits until he opens his eyes and then, in a show of seduction, she runs her hand up his chest just as she curls her other hand around her own throat and drags her fingers slowly down, down, _down_.

Just as she expected (hoped), his hot gaze follows her fingers, staring as her hand drops to trace the curve of one breast. She plays her fingers just along the edge for a moment, then cups and lifts the weight of it before flicking the soft pad of her thumb teasingly over her nipple, pebbling it, and oh, the blush that reddens his neck is evidence enough of his attraction for her.

“You will give me pleasure,” she says lowly, taking his hand and replacing hers on her breast. She moves his thick fingers to her nipple and without her even asking, he gives it a little tug, so she boldly reaches for his other hand and guides it back between her legs, where she presses his calloused fingertips to her clit. "You will make me come."

He licks his lips, blows out a long, slow breath, and his fingers slide experimentally against her folds before he tips his head to the side and says, “That does sound enticing, Your Majesty.” Lightly, he pinches her clit between his thumb and forefinger, and starts to massage the sensitive bundle of nerves. “But you'll have to forgive me, because I'm not sure how I'm supposed to manage that, when _this_ ,” he rubs her clit a little more firmly, “belongs to the King.”

Hot pleasure blooms from the stimulation of his fingers, and Regina bites down on her lip, shifting her hips toward him in excitement, but just as quickly as he started to rub her, suddenly he stops.

She glares at him, but he simply shrugs.

With waspish annoyance, she starts to reprimand him with, “You know very well that’s not what I…” but she stops mid-sentence because she doesn’t have to explain herself to some stupid Thief.

He raises his eyebrows expectantly at her though, waits for her to continue, and then out of nowhere she hears herself mumble a half-assed explanation of, “I just meant not _inside_. I can’t– he might– it’s just," she makes a frustrated growl in the back of her throat, shakes her head and looks away. "Just _not inside._ ”

She can feel him looking at her, and he must think she's insane, because he's not moving, he's not doing a goddamned thing. Long seconds tick by, and the longer they sit here doing nothing, the angrier and more embarrassed she gets.

"You _will_ touch me," she orders him again, her tone sharp as she brings her head back up, her eyes narrowed. "You _will–_ "

"Where, exactly?" he interrupts, and, growing more and more desperate for him to put his hands on her, she snaps, "You-know-where!"

He shakes his head. “Now that's not true - you’ve got all these bloody rules to go by, and if you want me to do it, if you want me to put my hands on you - I need you to be clear about what is, and what is _not,_ allowed.”

“Why are you acting stupid?” she snaps, temper growing by the second. “Just do it, do as I say or I'll- I’ll send you back to the dungeon!”

Oh gods, she hopes that he doesn't listen to her - that he sees her for the liar she is - because she desperately does not want to send him away right now.

The Thief takes a deep breath and holds her eyes for a long, heart-pounding moment that makes her nearly scream with anxiety. When he finally speaks, he has a completely unimpressed expression on his face, and his voice is calm and measured, his eyes sincere and steady on hers. "Just... just hold on a second…”

He rubs slow, soothing circles on her hip bones and lets his thumbs skate teasingly down between the crease of her thighs as he studies her expression, and _gods_ , the way he is always looking at her face is unnerving. Even with her naked in his lap, he's obviously more concerned with trying to get a read on her than looking at her body, and she does not understand _why_ he acts this way.

"Perhaps if you could clarify which parts belong to _him,_ and which are… fair game, I’d be better able to uh, lend a hand."

Regina sighs loudly, shaking her head in annoyance, frustration, and abject humiliation as she realizes her mistake. He's clearly looking for an excuse to get out of this, and she was stupid to think he'd want her, that he'd be willing to touch her, that he'd want anything to do with her. She is a _monster_ \- of course he doesn't want to be near her.

She curls her hands around his biceps and starts to shove herself off his lap, when suddenly he leans forward and wraps his left arm tightly around her waist, tugging her firmly back to him. His other hand slips between them to cup her hot, neglected core, and one of his fingers starts teasingly skimming through her folds. The unexpected, erotic sensation that flares through her is so intense that she's forced to clutch at his shoulders to stop from gasping, her hands twisting in the cheap cotton, and then - _gods_ \- he's speaking to her, his lips right at her ear, and she can't help the way her breath slips out too fast.

"You want me to touch you here?" he asks, his voice quiet and filled with gravel.

He gives her clit a few firm, slow swirls while he waits for her to reply, but she is so shocked at the sudden change in him that all she can do is nod.

"Be specific, Your Majesty," he rumbles, raising goosebumps up the back of her neck. "Tell me, do you want my fingers _right_ _here_ , on your pretty little clit?"

His fingers rub through her folds a bit deeper, slipping and sliding through her wetness, smearing it up so he can rub a bit faster over the sensitive, swollen nub, and when her breath stutters out, he chuckles low and deep against her ear. "You’re already so fucking wet, this _must_ be where you want me to touch you, yeah? Tell me _this_ doesn't belong to him," he pinches her clit and rub-rub-rubs it, "Tell me this is _ours_ to play with."

His breath is hot against the side of her neck, her sex is aching, and liquid heat is quickly pooling, surging to every place his fingers touch as she breathes her agreement, _"Yes."_

"Just not inside? Not here?" he reaffirms, slipping one finger deeper through her folds to circle her entrance.

She shivers and has to fight the urge to sink down on his fingertip, has to tense the thick muscles of her thighs so she doesn’t do something terribly rash, because she’s so pent up that if she isn’t careful, she just might change her mind.

" _N-not inside_ ," she grits out, her teeth clenched, and the Thief nods, moves his fingers safely away from her entrance and up to her clit, where he starts to work it in earnest.

"And what about...here?" he asks, his hand on her back sliding down to palm her ass, encouraging her to rock against him, his thick fingers digging right in.

“Yes,” she whispers, pressing the side of her face against his. “You can, _ohhh_ -” he speeds up on her clit and heat sparks through her, stealing her breath, “—th-there is acceptable.”

The Thief gives her ass a good squeeze and his fingers slip further in to touch teasingly against her rear entrance, but then he tugs her a little closer, presses her down onto his lap a bit more, and she can feel the sizeable bulge in his trousers pressing against her. She bites on her lower lip and curls her fingers into his shoulders as she looks down, wanting to see him, to learn what he’s blessed with after all these years of speculation. She imagines how good it might feel to rub herself against him, how hot, and hard, and smooth he might be, how perfectly he might fit between her thighs and - _fuck_ \- before she can think better of it, her hands are on his belt.

He doesn’t stop her – doesn’t even _try_ – no, he lets her get his trousers open with a few quick flicks of her fingers and he even helpfully lifts his hips as she pulls them down to his knees. She only has a second to admire him though – he’s thick, _gods he’s so thick_ \- before he grabs her hips and hauls her up against him so that his length is sliding through her slippery folds, all hot, and hard, and masculine, and – _fuck, ohhh yes –_ this is what she needs.

She’s mesmerized – her dark eyes wide as she stares down at the way the smooth, round head of his cock slips back and forth between her legs with nothing but her pleasure in mind. His hand on her ass is encouraging her to rock steadily, to grind her clit on him, and it’s a relief that he doesn’t seem to be trying to get inside of her, that he’s not attempting to guide her down onto him, because they absolutely cannot do that. His other hand rises to cup her breast and she exhales _loudly,_ unable to hold it in, the firm squeeze of his fingers feels so-fucking-good that she feels it all the way down to her already soaked core.

“How about here? This alright?” The Thief smirks, kneading her breast and sounding a little breathless himself.

Regina nearly chokes - she can’t believe he’s still able to focus while she’s soaking him with her slick need.

“Yes, of course there,” she rasps, dropping her head back and grinding down harder, _faster._ She feels like she’s already getting close, and oh, she wants to come, _needs_ to so badly.

She’s flushed all over now, there is sweat at her nape and temples, her heart is racing, and her fingers are curled so tightly into his shoulders they’re almost white. She’s desperately holding onto him, urging him to move beneath her as she works her hips over him, silently begging him for more, to keep going, to never stop.

The heavy, carved muscles of his back and arms bunch and flex as he moves her body, as he rocks her and simultaneously lifts his own hips up to meet her. The hand he has on her breast massages her, and when his thumb flicks across her nipple she scrunches her eyes closed, feeling the shock of pleasure zing down to her pulsing clit.

She’s getting oversensitive - gods, she’s really is so close - and she arches her back, wanting him to touch her nipples more, needing it, huffing out chopped, unsteady breaths as he starts to strum and pluck roughly at them. The inner muscles of her core are tightening with every breath, molten pleasure is radiating through her sex with every single brush of his stiff length through her slick, swollen folds, and she’s certain this is ecstasy, that there is nothing better than this. It’s pure perfection and she’s losing herself to it, succumbing to the steady pleasure and then—

He ducks his head and his lips close over her nipple - he gives it a good, hard suck, and oh - _oh-oh-oh!_ \- she just - _shatters._

Her back curls and his lips part from her with a smacking _pop_ , but he’s quick – his hands wrap firmly around her ribs, and he pulls her back in range of his greedy mouth, where he sucks on her other nipple as she trembles against him. Her hips stutter as he rocks his own up, rubbing relentlessly against her clit as she throbs erratically, sparks rippling through her and slicking her core, coating his length with the evidence of her pleasure in a way she has no chance of hiding.

When the overwhelming sensations finally relent, she's panting and boneless, but at least she's regained the ability to make coherent thoughts. She’s a little shocked to find that the Thief is still running his mouth over her, his big hands splayed across her back as he slowly and steadily kisses across her chest, his teeth dragging and nipping carefully along the swells of her breasts, his lips sucking lightly here and there, his tongue peeking out to flick and lave as he passes by her nipples or along a particularly tantalizing curve.

“What, _mmm_ ,” she has to pause to catch her breath before she murmurs, “What're you doing?”

He lifts his pretty blue eyes, looking heatedly at her through his short, thick lashes as he sucks another hot kiss just under her right nipple. He flicks his tongue playfully over the hard, sensitive tip, and Regina parts her lips in surprise as he shrugs. “Waiting to see how else I can be of service.”

“I… _ohhh,_ ” she makes a little hum when he circles her other nipple with his tongue and sucks lightly.

He’s distracting, _too_ distracting, and she can’t focus, can’t figure out what the hell she’s supposed to do now, short of throwing him out, and despite the late hour, she’s absolutely not ready to do that yet.

Regina shifts, her knees are starting to cramp, and she can already feel the uncomfortable wetness she’s left between them, _on him_. When she gets to her feet, however, she realizes just how selfish she’s been, how cruel – his pants are shoved down around his knees, he’s got his hands in his lap but she can see that he hasn’t come, that he’s _so_ hard – probably painfully so.

And, gods, it’s been a long time since she has felt this good, since she has felt _generous_ , and she feels like maybe she wants to do something about that for him.

“Take off your shirt, and lower your trousers,” she orders, pleased when he simply lifts his brows and complies.

He smirks when she spends a little too long staring at him, sweeping her gaze across all that lovely muscle that’s littered with scars and imperfections that suddenly has her mouth watering. Even with his pants pooled around his ankles, he is utterly beautiful to her, not too bulky but well defined. She can’t count his ribs, but she can clearly see the cut of his abdominal muscles, the ripple of his lats, the flex of his pecs, and the thickness in his thighs - _gods_ \- what a specimen. She is _so_ glad she didn't kill him.

“Looks better up close,” he teases, holding out his hand to her.

She obeys him, takes an eager step forward and places her smaller hand in his, wanting to see exactly what he’s talking about. The Thief moves swiftly – catches her completely off-guard as he jerks her arm, spins her around fast and pulls her down into the chair in front of him, causing her to sit down hard between his legs, so that her naked back is pressed up against his bare chest.

“ _How dare you,_ ” she snarls defensively, half-heartedly fighting his restraint but admittedly, not as much as she probably should.

She supposes she should feel trapped, should feel angry and annoyed, but he's laughing lightly with his brawny arm wrapped snugly around her waist, his breath is puffing against her neck, and his chest is fitted tightly up against the entire length of her back. It feels lovely, actually, to have the naked heat of him all pressed against her from hip to neck, to feel the hard nudge of his arousal digging into the top of her ass, and somehow, she can’t quite find anything to complain about.

His other hand tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear and up into her failing bun as he leans his face in close enough for his nose to brush her cheek, and when he speaks, it’s right in her ear, low, deep, and measured. His voice is calm, steady, and it makes gooseflesh flare across her chest to pebble both of her nipples.

“Now, you said that we can’t do anything _inside…_ ” His hand finds hers and he traces over her fingers, strokes lightly up and down, up and down, over and over, before he carefully lifts it and moves it to her inner thigh. Regina closes her eyes at the sensation, at the way his fingertips and hers are circling feather-light across her sensitive flesh. “And I understand how that applies to me,” he starts to shift her hand down the inside of her leg, “But what about you?”

“Me?” she barely gets the word out as he guides her hand down between her thighs and presses her fingers lightly against her pink, still _very_ slick and sensitive center.

“Yes, _you_.” With the bridge of his nose, he nudges the side of her face, and when she tips her head for him, she feels him start to suck lightly along the side of her neck.

Fuck. _Fuck that feels good._

And then he asks, “Is Her Majesty allowed to fuck herself?”

“Well I…” she takes in a quick breath when he singles out her middle finger and positions it at her entrance, and when he starts to gently, deliberately press it forward, she just... allows it, releasing a hot breath from her lips as her own slim finger begins to slide into her aching, sensitive core. “Of, of course I’m allowed,” she whispers.

“Well, what are you waiting for then?” he quietly prompts, sucking kisses to the corner of her jaw, just behind her ear, then back down the side of her neck, lulling her as he presses her finger further and further in, until it’s totally buried inside of her.

She doesn’t answer.

She shouldn’t do this - she should not continue down this path of debauchery. She’s already crossed the line with him tonight – she recklessly, stupidly crossed it two years ago too – and every minute she spends fulfilling her selfish desires is another chance to meet her own grisly death. She should tell him no, should denounce this entire escapade and call for her guards to immediately take him back to the dungeon. But then - _ohhh_ \- his teeth sink into the crux of her shoulder, his tongue does this little flick and swirl, and the words get stuck in her throat.

She can’t fight it, can’t ignore the way her chest has flushed red-hot with desire, the way her blood is streaking like lightning through her veins. Her nipples are peaked and achingly sensitive, she’s already thrumming with excitement and arousal, and she's getting so-fucking-wet just thinking about it that she accidentally clenches around her own finger without even meaning to.

_Shit._

“Perhaps you need some instruction,” his mouth is hot against the curve of her shoulder, his teeth blunt as he scrapes them across her skin.

“ _I-know-how-to-do-it_ ,” she hisses quickly, sliding her finger out slowly, then - oh, _ohhh -_ slipping it back in with the slightest bit of force.

“Hmm, do you now?”

The Thief reaches down and guides each of her knees up and over his so that her thighs are spread wide open to the cool night air, then he shifts them, leans her back more against him and slides her ass forward so her hips are tipped up just a little.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” he teases, shakings his head and nipping at her shoulder, before he adds, “Why don’t you prove it?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” she grumbles, lightheaded - drunk with desire.

She swears she is about to tell him off, but then his mouth is at her ear and he’s whispering hotly, “No, you certainly don’t, but think of how bloody good it will feel if you do.”

The next thing she knows, she’s defiantly shoving _two_ of her fingers inside herself, thrusting deep and curling them hard, searching for that perfect spot she knows without a doubt will make her come. She has an overwhelming urge to show off a little, to prove to him she knows _exactly_ what she's doing, and when she gets the angle just right and makes herself gasp, she swears she can feel his matching smile pressing against her shoulder.

The act of self-pleasure isn’t new to her, not by any means. She’s had years of practice, for it’s the only way she’s ever gotten off. Her husband has never achieved it, nor has he cared to try, so she’s good at this, she knows how to get off quickly when she wants to and how to drag it out when she’s really feeling it.

But she’s never done this with a partner - has never come close to it – hasn't even done it with another person in the same room. Leopold wants nothing to do with her pleasure, wants nothing more than to use her for his own purpose and be rid of her. So this, being with her Thief, being held tightly in his arms with his breath in her ear and his stiff length nudging against her lower back, smearing his pre-cum against the top of her ass, reminding her of just how aroused he is, how much he wants her - _her and no one else -_ well, it’s all completely new.

And it’s setting her _on fire_ with need _._

In a matter of seconds she feels out of control, almost frantic, her fingers picking up speed and thrusting swiftly, filling herself over and over as she drops her head back against his shoulder. His lips find her neck, then her throat, his hands grasp roughly at her breasts, tug and pinch at her nipples, and she can’t help but whine quietly beneath the onslaught of pleasure. He’s too good at this, at touching her everywhere she wants him to, at making every single sensitive part of her spark and sizzle at precisely the right time.

She’s indecently wet, the sound is loud in the quiet of the room, but she doesn’t care. She’s greedy – so typical for her, always wanting more - and she curls her feet behind each of his muscular calves, giving her the leverage she needs to be able to rock her hips down hard against her own hand. That feels better, feels _fantastic -_ gods, she loves being able to move, to fuck however she wants - and when she shoves a third finger inside of herself, _he_ moans, the sound low and rough, causing gooseflesh to break across her chest and a shiver to run up her spine.

Apparently, he likes the way she moves too.

With every roll of her hips now his cock bumps against her ass, and when she arches her back and purposely rubs against him, she can feel the way his breath stutters. It’s an incredibly sensual feeling – to slide up and down on her own soaked fingers, fucking herself closer and closer to climax as his cock presses and rubs against the cleft of her ass. She can’t even blame him when he drops a hand to palm one round cheek, to give it a good squeeze that makes her jaw drop in pure pleasure, before his hand skates around to smooth across her stomach and then down, down, squeezing in just in front of hers to – fuck, _oh fuck_! - press and rub on her clit.

There’s no hope now of stretching this out, no chance in hell that she can stave off the rippling waves that are starting inside of her, clenching on her own fingers with every thrust she drives into her swollen center. His archer’s fingertips are perfection – they’re right where she needs him, strumming across her hard, throbbing clit as she hammers her fingers faster and faster inside, and she can’t catch her breath, she's panting with her mouth hanging open and her head dropped back, her chest shoved forward, breasts bouncing as she recklessly jerks her hips and races toward her finish. She needs this - _fuck_ she needs to come again - needs her Thief to deliver this to her. This pleasure he brings makes her forget, makes the world fade away, makes her feel the exact opposite of everything that her husband and her entire stupid life makes her feel.

Suddenly it happens, white light flashes before her eyes, she clenches hard on her fingers, the sensation in her clit spikes up, _up!_ every nerve in her core flare with sparks of pure pleasure and she flies-the-fuck-apart. Liquid heat floods from her and she tries to jerk away from the sensation, but his large, rough hand is covering hers, his palm grinding hers against her clit, his fingers pressing against her knuckles, holding her hand steady, keeping her own digits buried deep inside of her. His lips are at her ear and he’s encouraging her, rasping, “That’s right, _come_. Don’t shy away, let yourself feel it, enjoy it, this is yours; you’ve earned it. You’re the Queen and _this is yours.”_

She lets herself believe him, scrunches her eyes shut and just goes with it, lets her body greedily wring her fingers, trembles, and shakes and shudders while he palms her breasts and massages her nipples with his free hand. Wave after wave of pleasure flows through her, shocks her system, makes her arch back sharply and she turns her face into his neck as she gasps for air. He holds her tightly against him, refusing to let up, pushing her pleasure on and on, his hand guiding hers - fucking her with it - as he tells her to _take it, take more, take what is yours._

When her climax finally abates, she breathlessly collapses back against him, her eyes closed, sweat lacing her brow, her sex dripping, and her shaking fingers tired as he slips them out to rest lightly against her thigh.

His other hand rises and brushes a few strands of hair off her forehead, then threads through the finer ones at her nape, where his fingertips start to knead and rub.

“Well, you sure showed me,” he murmurs lightly, and she smirks without opening her eyes. His touch feels incredible, eases the tension in her neck that she didn’t realize was there, and without thinking, she leans into his hand.

His voice is a low rumble when he adds, “You know, I rather like being proved wrong.”

She muffles a soft laugh, which she is relieved he does not acknowledge. She’s blissed out from her two orgasms and they both know it. She can’t be expected to think straight, let alone to be prim and proper or to slip back into her role as the terror-inducing, sinister Evil Queen - not just yet.

Little by little his nimble fingers slide up the back of her head, working through the thick, heavy tresses, rubbing at her scalp, pulling out the rest of her hairpins one at a time and gently untangling the strands she had carefully pulled up and tucked in earlier in the night at Leopold’s insistence.

Fatigue is setting in, and the reality of her situation starts to contaminate her thoughts. With every hairpin her Thief pulls out, she thinks more and more about how she came to be in this position, and all she can focus on is how she’s so tired of it all. She feels weary, completely and utterly exhausted, and she knows it's from being stretched too thin, from her pathetic attempts at playing these roles she's been given - Second Wife. Powerful Evil Queen. Perfect Daughter.

None of which she ever wanted to begin with.

The more her Thief’s hand rubs at the base of her skull and threads through her thick, jet-black hair, the more she wishes she didn’t have to do any of it. She has never wanted this life. All she has ever wanted is a life of her own, a life where she could be happy.

Is that really so much to ask?

“Christ, you’ve got about the most gorgeous hair, haven’t you?”

His voice is so quiet, so incredibly soft in the stillness of the room that it barely carries over the sound of the fire that’s now burning low in the hearth on the adjacent wall. His tone is smooth and comforting, and when his comment is followed by this easy, amused chuckle that vibrates through her, Regina is certain he didn’t mean to actually say that aloud, and she smiles at his slip, though she does not have the energy to laugh.

She becomes vaguely aware that he’s urging her to move, guiding her up just enough so he can right his trousers and recover the soft green blanket, which he proceeds to wrap securely around her. Then he shifts her, gets her to situate both legs to one side so she’s settled down cross-wise in the chair, and in this lulled, dreamy state she’s sunken into, she simply does as he says. She curls her thoroughly sated, smaller body up against him, her knees bent and pressed together, her legs draped across his lap, and her blanket-wrapped feet dangling over the armrest. Then he slides one bulky arm around her shoulders and gently guides her head down so that she’s resting the side of her face against the pillow of his chest, where he starts running his fingers through her hair again.

She’s so sleepy, utterly bone-tired, so she shuts her eyes and basks in the warmth of him, in the way she feels so safely held in his embrace, all the while listening to the steady, slow tha-thump… tha-thump… tha-thump… of his heart… of, of…?

“What is your name?” she murmurs, nuzzling her face against the heat of his neck and fighting hard to stay awake for his answer.

“We both know that I should not tell you that,” he replies quietly, his fingers stroking soothingly through her hair, his lips very close to her forehead.

There is contempt and disappointment in her tone, and she doesn’t even try to hide it when she replies, “I see.”

Another few seconds pass and a different thought tugs at her, tightens anxiety around her chest like a snake and makes her mention it, even though she has no idea what sort of response she actually wants from him.

“I can’t help but notice that you didn’t _finish_ during our earlier activities.”

“No, that I did not.” He’s quiet and reserved, but his fingers are still stroking her hair, steady and smooth, as if this conversation is just as normal as a child’s bedtime story.

“Well? Why not?” The concept that he kept such strict control of himself, while she lost hers so brilliantly, _so completely_ , inflames her, stokes her ire and has her tucking her chin down in irritation as she bites off, “Are you really foolish enough to pass up the opportunity to come for your Queen? Or are you, perhaps, _unable_ to finish what you started?”

He chuckles lightly, then releases a long, slow breath before he answers her, his voice calm and even, not the slightest bit offended like she expected him to be.

“I can assure you, there’s not a thing - other than my own self-restraint - that’s preventing me from reaching completion.” His fingers in her hair pause to rub at her temple, then continue their long, luxurious strokes through the thick, onyx strands.

“And while you might think it foolish of me to hold off, it’s my understanding that tonight isn’t about me. It’s about _you_ ," he continues with that irritating patience. "So forgive me if I’ve missed the point, but I really don’t see how _my_ getting off could’ve provided the help I promised you, Your Majesty.”

He’s a freak, this Thief, this man who considers her needs, who follows through on his promises, who asks for nothing in return.

A fucking freak.

“I’d thank you for your consideration,” she grumbles, “But without even knowing your name, you’ve gone and made that rather difficult.”

Quietly, he teases, “What? _Thieving Rat_ isn’t doing it for you anymore?”

She cannot fault him for being cautious, not after all she has put him through, but her foolish heart is on fire with his continued refusal to provide his name. His lack of trust over such a seemingly small thing – especially after the things she just allowed him to see, to _do_ – makes this feel much more dramatic than it should.

It feels strikingly like _rejection_ , and it burns a hole clean through her chest.

It doesn’t help that he didn’t achieve the same level of passionate heights that she did, and that makes her feel even more miserable. She has never had that happen before - Leopold might not like the fact that she’s not Eva, but even so, Regina has _never_ been unsuccessful at coaxing her husband into achieving his climax. 

Isn't she supposed to be the fairest of them all? The fact that this common Thief was able to resist her charms makes her feel like a total failure, like a complete fraud. Perhaps her mother is right and she's already losing her charms. She isn't twenty anymore, for god's sake - she's already _thirty -_ and perhaps she really is losing her looks, her allure. Suddenly Regina feels foolish, she feels needy and silly, self-conscious and stupid in a way she never has.

The combination of these things is too much for her tonight – she cannot deal with the stress of what happened earlier _and_ with whatever the fuck is happening now. All she knows is that this really hurts, and the tears that have endlessly plagued her once again spill over, wetting the Thief's neck even though she tries her best to hold them back.

She brings a shaking hand up and wipes her tears away from his skin quickly, not wanting to sully him with the mess, an automatic, Cora-ingrained, _I’m sorry_ rasping out under her breath even though he’s nothing more than a peasant. She cringes when she hears it and is about to take it back, to force herself back into her role as Queen, since their lines of separation are still so clearly in place. But then he’s wrapping his arms even tighter around her, gathering her up closer so that he’s hugging her to him and rocking her ever so slightly with his face pressed in close, and against the top of her head, she hears him whispering, “Wait, wait, I’m sorry. _Fuck._ Please don’t cry, not on account of this, of– of me. _Bollocks_.”

She doesn’t say anything in return. Regina doesn’t understand why he’s apologizing, and she doesn’t care to hear it anyway. She has given him excellent reasons why he should not tell her his name. He is still her prisoner, and despite what happened tonight, she has no plans of releasing him. He has every right to be cautious, to protect himself from her wrath and rage in every way he can. He would be a fool not to. She just needs a moment to remember that; to redraw the lines that she so desperately blurred tonight, and she swears she will stop with the waterworks and this embarrassing act of melancholy that she has been caught up in all evening.

But then his hand is rubbing almost frantically up and down her back, and his face is in her hair, nuzzling against her, his chest is rising and falling quickly as if he’s actually concerned he’s hurt her, and he’s telling her quickly, “Robin, my name’s Robin. Please don’t cry. _Shit_ \- _fuck_ \- I - I’m sorry.”

He holds her close for several minutes, his hands rubbing comfortingly over her back, shoulders, and arms until she gets herself back under control. He’s good at this, at making her feel safe, warm, and secure, and though she had been admittedly (and rather unfairly) upset with him, his quiet words and meaningful touches make her rethink her position. It is rare she forgives, and rarer still she recognizes her own guilt, but she finds herself accepting his apology, relaxing against him, and even rubbing her own hand carefully, lightly, up and down the muscled planes of his chest in admittance of the part she played in her own recent loss of temper.

In the past she has theorized that her Thief might not be like all the other greedy, egotistical, opportunistic men she has known. But this is the first time in her life she has ever dared to hope it could actually be true.

“Robin?” Regina brings her head up, and he is so close that their noses brush. She can taste his breath on her lips, the scent of his skin is heady and almost dizzying, and she swears she had something intelligent to say, but she just... forgets it.

Robin raises his brows, his expression sincere as he quietly asks, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

And, as she stares up into his pretty blue eyes, for some reason she finds it important to confess, “I… if you would, I… prefer to be called Regina.”

As he nods, his lips quirk upward and the lines at his eyes crinkle handsomely. She finds this feature so endearing that without thinking she raises her hand to trace each of them. The pads of her fingers run along the fine lines, then down across the rough scrape of his stubbled cheek, her nails catching in the short hairs, tripping over his dimples, then trailing all the way to the point of his chin, and it is then that she falls into the same trap that he had earlier. Her eyes drift up just the slightest degree and his lips are so close - and though she might _prefer_ Regina, she _is_ still the Queen - so without even asking, she tightens her fingers around his jaw, tips her chin up, tugs his down, and kisses him.

It is the first kiss she’s shared with a man other than her husband in thirteen years, and as Robin returns her kiss, it is chaste, and soft, and careful. Not at all like the handful of kisses her husband has forced from her throughout their marriage.

No.

Robin’s kiss is calm and confident, unrushed, and unselfish. She is in control of it, and his mouth moves steadily along with hers. He doesn’t resist her, not in the slightest, and neither does he lead. He lets her take from him, lets her determine the cautious, tentative pace, the tension of the pull when she sucks lightly on his top lip; he even makes her flick her tongue _twice_ against his lower lip before he opens his mouth and peeks his own tongue out to brush experimentally against hers.

When it comes to kissing, her Thief is almost a gentleman.

Gods.

And if she wasn’t so tired, she imagines that she could - _would_ \- kiss him like this for hours _._

Regina reluctantly breaks the kiss for a breath, and he immediately takes a long inhale before he laughs lowly and gives her a smile so genuine that for a moment, her heavy heart feels just a little bit less rotten.

“Well, that answers _that_.” He strokes the apple of her cheek and gives her another small smile, and she lays her head back down against his chest.

“Answers what?” The world is fading fast and in her battle against impending sleep, she twitches against him as her heart rate slows.

“I had the chance to kiss you two years ago, and I didn’t,” he rubs her back rhythmically and rests his cheek on the top of her head. Her limbs are already heavy, the world is spinning out and awareness is leaving her when he finishes, “Now I know what I was missing, and what an idiot I was to have waited.”

* * *

When Regina opens her eyes, she is in her bed, tucked in snugly under the covers with her green wool blanket draped over the top. Sunlight is streaming in through the balcony window, her eyes feel sore and scratchy, and it takes a moment for her to remember why that is.

Oh no.

The Thief.

She sits up quickly, dread rushing through her as each minute of the previous night replays in her mind, every second of her time with Robin, _no,_ the Thief, _no_ , the _Prisoner_ \- fuck, _fuck!_ \- taunting her, and as she slaps a hand down to shove herself out of bed, a thick piece of parchment with her own monogram in the upper left corner crinkles beneath her fingertips.

***

_Dear Regina,_

_Sorry I had to leave without a proper farewell, but I thought it best not to linger once I’d served my purpose. Thank you for a truly lovely evening. I have a feeling we’ll see each other again soon._

_-Robin_

_P.S. Sorry about your hairpins._

***

No.

_No!_

Grasping the paper tightly, she scampers out of bed, shrugs into her housecoat and storms into the adjacent room. Sure enough, the large black chair is empty, and laying on the floor, wide open, are the ankle and wrist shackles he had worn. Beside them, there is a small, neatly stacked pile of her ruined hairpins that he must have used to pick the locks.

The scream of rage she lets loose echoes off the walls and reverberates back at her tauntingly in the eerie silence of the room.

After everything that happened last night, after everything he saw, everything she _let him see…_

He has betrayed her.

He promised her that she wouldn’t regret this. He told her he wouldn’t _dream of it_ and, and - _god-fucking-damnit_ \- she most definitely regrets it. She regrets it so, _so much_.

With a second shriek of frustration and the furious shredding of the note he left her, she vows that when she catches him - because she _will_ catch him - she is going to make that underhanded, duplicitous, back-stabbing wretch pay for his treachery.

She is the Queen.

The _Evil_ Queen.

And she will _not_ be trifled with.

  
  



	8. Losing Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - blood, gore, torture, murder

The Queen presses the red-hot iron against the man's sternum yet again, branding another one of her monograms into his pale flesh, cutting off the rest of his lies, morphing them into screams of pure agony that echo throughout the dungeon. The prisoner jerks and flails futilely against his shackles, wriggles like a snake beneath the chains from which he dangles, and the Queen curls her lip in disgust.

"Tell me what you’re after!"

"Nothing! I swear I–"

"Nothing?!" Her eyes flash in fury as she pulls the iron bar away and steps closer to him. "Tell me, Friar, do you think that I am stupid? That I am naive?" She turns and hurls the iron rod across the room in her rage - it strikes a table filled with other tools made for torture and makes a resounding _clang!_ that reverberates off the surrounding stone walls.

"No, Your Majesty! Of-of-of course not!" The older, heavy-set man looks petrified, he’s sweating profusely and has gone crimson in the face, is gasping for air like a fish out of water, like his heart might give out at any moment. "But I swear it, Your Majesty, please, I’m not after anything, I was just passing through!"

"You are the fourth prisoner I have caught in the last two weeks with that repulsive tattoo!" she snarls, glaring at the black ink that decorates the man’s forearm, where several crudely drawn arrows form the shape of double ‘M’. "Do you think I don’t know what that is? That I wouldn’t recognize that filthy bandit marking? I wasn't born yesterday, you empty-headed fool, I _know_ you're all part of that merry little band of Sherwood buffoons who’ve made a game of picking Prince John’s pockets!"

The man before her says nothing, simply stares wide-eyed and panting heavily, as if she’s just revealed his deepest secrets to the world.

“So? What is it?” she snaps, “What is it you think you would steal from the Evil Queen?”

The man cowers pathetically beneath her penetrating gaze as tears stream down his face, and now that she has him good and shaken, she changes tactics, hoping to keep him off his guard. She takes a deep breath and puts significant effort into calming her voice, stands up straighter and mock-casually brushes a few imaginary wrinkles from the front of her full, royal blue skirt.

“What’s your flavor, thief?” she starts to stalk a slow circle around him, drawing just a little closer with every step. “Coin? Precious gems? Ancient relics?” she rolls her eyes and scoffs at the man. “No. Something tells me you’re not quite that sophisticated.”

She stares up at him menacingly, observes the broken capillaries of his reddened cheeks and bulbous nose, the yellow tinge to the whites of his eyes and fingernails, the brittle state of what’s left of his thinning hair.

“Nooo,” she drawls, makes a clicking sound of disdain through her teeth as she circles him, “It’s the liquor stores that interest _you_. Perhaps you were planning to raid the Castle Brewery?”

The man looks increasingly panicked, sweat is pouring down his face, his ragged clothes drenched with blood and filth and god knows what else.

“Listen carefully,” the Queen faces the prisoner once more and gives him her most reassuring smile. “If you continue to waste my time with your pathetic lies, I will _personally_ make certain that the last time you saw the light of day, remains the last time. But,” the man trembles against his chains as she steps up to him and grabs his fat chin firmly between two fingers, “If you are a good boy, if you cooperate and you tell Your Queen what you’re up to,” she bargains, “perhaps I can still be convinced to let you live.”

She holds the man’s watery gaze for several uneventful seconds, and when he does _not_ give her the information she wants, she snarls in frustration and calls for her Lieutenant.

“Put this useless worm back in the ground,” she instructs. “I have no use for it.”

The man screams his protest, but Regina ignores him, watching in approval as Brody does as he’s told, immediately stepping forward from where he had been posted by the door to bludgeon the fat Friar over the back of the head. The man instantly blacks out, and when Brody unshackles him, he drops unceremoniously to the floor with a heavy thump that nearly makes her stomach heave. She _detests_ prisoners, positively loathes getting anywhere near these deplorables, these filthy, common swine, and as Brody proceeds to drag the man out by the ankles, she can’t help but run her tongue over her teeth in revulsion.

The only reason she’s down in the dungeon tonight is because she knows that her Thief is still up to something, that his little gang has some sort of heist planned, and she wants to get to the bottom of it. It’s the tattoo that gave them away - Brody had noticed Robin's double M when they caught him - he's good with details like that - but when they caught a second prisoner with the same mark, he had immediately informed her of the connection.

She’s glad _he_ was paying attention, because she has admittedly been distracted by some of her Thief's _other_ attributes, and that ugly outlaw marking isn't his only tattoo. On his other arm is a rather lovely piece of artwork, in fact - a rampant lion within a black shield - and that tattoo is far more eye-catching. It was clearly done by a steady hand, the lines are crisp and dark, the shape precise and almost... attractive. His lion tattoo is much more memorable, so much so that she hadn’t spent any time thinking about the stupid double M on his other arm, at least, not until Brody did a little research and discovered that he was one of those fucking wolf's heads that Prince John is always bitching about.

She’s been tracking the situation ever since, capturing these imbeciles whenever she has a chance and trying to break them, though so far, she hasn’t had much luck. What’s worse, is that she _keeps_ catching them, keeps discovering more of them just about everywhere she looks - loitering around town, scampering about in the King’s Forest, picking off travelers on the main roads, and she _knows_ it’s no coincidence. Normally she doesn’t bother herself with bandits and thieves unless they start stealing the pants off her citizens, but they’ve gotten far too close to the castle now, and she figures if she can find out what they’re up to, she might have a chance to see her Thief again, and it’s a chance she just _has_ to take.

Things have been exceptionally stressful for Regina since that night she spent with Robin. Snow White is still sick, and while her condition has not worsened, neither has it improved. The situation is wearing heavily on Regina - she has had no sleep, no rest at all - because she's far too busy obsessing over Snow's health, spending every single minute researching potions, herbs, relics, and artifacts, or writing to scholars and well-known healers – doing anything and everything that might provide aid to her stepdaughter. That, and... satisfying her husband's sudden obsessive need to _make heirs._

She's well beyond exhausted, pushed past her limits and quite honestly, terrified for the life of her stepdaughter. And to make matters worse, where she and Leopold used to generally ignore one another, she now finds herself constantly arguing with him. He still won't let her see Snow, but he fully expects her to service his panicky, disgusting sexual needs, and she can't seem to stop from breaking down in the middle of it, which infuriates _both_ of them to the point of having full-out screaming matches. This new dynamic, combined with the persistent, overbearing presence of her mother, who has taken up residence at the castle in order to maintain her stasis spell over Snow, makes Regina feel like she's living in her own personal brand of hell.

With each nerve-wracking day that passes, the Queen feels like she’s losing her damn mind, like she can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t anymore. Her spine feels like it's crumbling beneath the weight of her responsibilities, and the only thing keeping her standing is that innocent, sweet, sixteen-year-old girl lying helpless in her bed, just waiting for Regina to do something _useful_. The night that the Thief helped her seems like a dream now, like a ridiculous fantasy, and she honestly isn’t sure if she made the whole thing up in some delusional mental breakdown, or if it actually occurred.

She needs to see him.

She has this overwhelming urge to _scream_ at him, to bludgeon him, to make him pay for being so kind to her, for talking so softly, for looking at her so respectfully, for touching her so passionately. She wants to punish him for making her feel what it’s like to be truly well-seen to, wants to have him horsewhipped for making her feel comfortable and safe in his arms, for giving her pleasure and encouraging her to _take it_ for herself _._

He had no right to do any of that, no right to make her feel all those lovely things and then just up and leave, to sneak off in the middle of the night before she was ready for it, before she had a chance to rebuild the walls he so easily knocked down.

How dare he make her feel so... so _functional_ and then just disappear?

“Ya know,” the other prisoner’s strained voice calls tauntingly, jerking her out of her thoughts and back down into the dank, dark dungeon. “I gotta say you’re a mighty fine piece of work, Your Majesty, but that temper of yours sure does ruin the mood.”

The temper in question boils impossibly higher, and if the Queen had hackles, she’d raise them. In a flash, she turns on her heel and stalks across the room to where the other prisoner is chained to the wall, grabbing up a wooden handled cat-o-nine tails on her way.

This prisoner has taken one hell of a beating over the past few days. He is covered in welts, bruises, blood, and filth, and if she had thought for a second that he’d talk, she’d have started her interrogation with him. There is something about him she inherently detests, something that makes her gnash her teeth just looking at him, makes her clench her hands into fists. She’s certain he won’t give an inch; he’s the type that thinks much too highly of himself, an imbecile who thinks he’s clever when she knows what he really is - nothing but a pig-headed moronic half-wit.

“Temper?” she lowers her voice to an angry purr, “You haven’t seen even an ounce of temper, my dear. But if that’s what you want, I am more than willing to give you an example.”

With a snap of her elbow and a flick of her wrist, the Queen cracks the whip across the prisoner’s bare chest.

Somehow, he stifles his painful groan beneath the bite of the knots, then grits out, “Well now, that’s very generous of you,” he forces a grin, the fool, and continues, “Very generous indeed. Cause I’ll tell you what, everyone ‘round these parts has said for years that His Majesty’s _second_ wife isn’t nearly the benefactor that Eva was, but here you are, handing out loads of this ugly old attitude like the Season of Giving has come early.” He has the nerve to laugh at her, his smile cruel and wide, and Regina sees red.

She rains three more lashes across his chest and abdomen, all of which he screams and thrashes wildly beneath, his skin reddening and splitting beneath the hard edges of the knots in several areas as she skillfully slashes the whip across his body.

“I am many things,” The Queen smirks and smooths back a dark lock of hair, “but ugly is not one of them.”

The prisoner’s body shakes beneath the stinging pain and he drops his head back as blood drips down his chest and belly, but he otherwise keeps his judgmental eyes glued to the Queen. After a moment, a look of what she would almost swear is acceptance crosses his features, and she wrinkles her nose in suspicion, certain he’s toying with her.

“True enough,” the man says with forced casualness. “And ya know, I am selling you a bit short, aren’t I? In fact, a friend of mine once told me all about some of your other fine assets that make up for that hot head of yours.”

The Queen’s heart stops, and she swallows thickly. Surely, he’s making this up, trying to stall; this man might be in the same gang as her Thief, but Robin wouldn’t tell this moron about the elicit things they’ve done together… would he?

“What are you talking about? You know nothing,” she warns, her heart pounding in her chest, her thoughts on repeat - _What does he know? Oh gods, could he really know?_ “Shut up, fool, before I kill you.”

“Oh, I know all kinds of things,” the idiot smirks. “I’m chock-full of information that might be of use to someone like yourself. Someone who, apparently, quite likes having her uh,” he grins wolfishly and rakes his eyes over her, “ _ass_ -ets filled.”

She feels her face flush red with humiliation; her hands shake with mortification and rage.

He knows.

Oh gods.

He knows about _that_ time. The _first_ time.

And he’s still talking, still yammering on like he doesn’t have a care in the damn world, like he’s completely at ease with this situation, his tone obnoxiously casual.

“And you know, while I’ve been kicking back in your lovely dungeon here,” he grins, “I’ve been thinking quite a lot about that, and about how much someone might pay to keep the evidence of that sort of thing from getting out.”

“You have no proof of anything, because there is nothing to have proof of,” she growls menacingly, racking her brain in a panic for any sort of evidence Robin might have had of that night, but _knowing_ that even a rumor of her activities with him might be enough to get her killed.

“Oh, you’d be surprised by the things a sticky-fingered bloke might slip away with after a certain sort of rendezvous,” he chuckles lightly.

Regina’s eyes widen with fear. She doesn’t know what exactly this prisoner is referencing but his point is excellent – several items have gone missing from the castle (that she knows of) and the list of things Robin might have stolen that night is lengthy. There is a silver bracelet of hers that disappeared around that time, and _shit_ , she thought her mother had taken it to prove a point, but what if it wasn’t Cora…

And who knows what he took after she fell asleep in his arms the other night? He could’ve taken _anything._

She is _so_ fucked.

“Your evidence does you no good if you’re dead,” she warns. “Neither does your pathetic, made up story.”

“Why don’t we make a trade?” he gives her a half-smile. “You let me go, and I’ll get rid of the evidence. A life for a life, yeah?”

“How dare you threaten me?!” She storms toward him and gets right up in his face, but he’s _still talking._

“Oh, come on, love, I’m just trying to help, just trying to be a good citizen. I’ve got something you want, and if that’s not to your fancy, well,” he looks her up and down, “I’d be willing to entertain some other ideas for you.”

She is disgusted by him, by his blatant perusal of her body. How typical, how very predictable for a man to think he can take advantage of her through sex.

“Maybe it’s an experienced man, such as myself that you’re wanting,” he continues. “A bloke who really knows how to handle his woman.”

“You will not speak another word,” she growls, shoving away from him and taking two steps in the opposite direction.

He outright laughs at her, and she turns sharply, then cracks the whip viciously across his chest. The prisoner screeches in pain, his flesh tears across his ribs and hangs from him in shreds but again, it barely interrupts his incessant, prattling mouth.

“I don’t see what the problem is,” he goads, shivering from the pain. “The way I see it, if you’ll spend this many years fucking the brains out of that wrinkled old sod you call a husband, anyone with half-a-prick ought to be an improvement. Why shouldn’t we give it a go, love? What’s not to like?”

He’s grinning broadly now, panting in agony and the Queen fights a wave of nausea at the mention of her husband. She turns her back on the prisoner, and her eyes land on the table in the corner, upon which there is a large pair of tongs.

She’s going to cut his fucking tongue out. That’ll shut him up.

She takes one step toward the table, but he raises his voice so that he’s nearly yelling, and she’s forced to turn back because it’s echoing off the walls, and she cannot allow it – not with the things he’s saying. He’s too loud, anyone could overhear his defamation and if they do, it could mean the end for her.

“Tell me, is it the power, the coin, or just your greedy, sloppy little cunt that’s kept you in the King’s bed all these years? My bet’s always been on that first reason, but I’d rather you brought your sweet arse over here and showed me it’s the last one,” he laughs.

_He must. Stop. Talking._

She’s starting to panic, and she must shut him up - _gods -_ she _will_ find a way to shut him up.

“Because I can’t think of a reason any decent person would put up with that self-serving pig who hasn’t done a goddamn thing but roll around in his own riches and filth, not since his precious Eva died.”

“Do not speak of her!” Regina’s rage is so great that she can barely force the words out.

The prisoner laughs, narrows his eyes and taunts, “Is it true he calls her name when he fucks you?”

 _Humiliation - h_ _orror - a_ _bject embarrassment_ consumes her.

Her entire body shuts down - she can’t react - she’s frozen solid.

_How does he know that?! Does Robin know?!_

Did Robin hear Leopold that night? Did Robin tell this man about it? Who else knows?

_Does everyone know?!_

“Now now, you can’t blame the old git, you do look quite a bit like her.” The prisoner licks his lips, then leers at her, looks her up and down and continues, “Except I heard she was a proper lady, and my mate’s given it to me on good authority that beneath that little crown of yours, you’re nothing more than a neglected little two-bit whore who can’t wait to drop her knickers for the first willing bloke to look her way.”

 _Fury._ _White-hot-rage._

It overwhelms her, constricts her chest and narrows her vision, makes it impossible to breathe, to see, to do anything but vibrate beneath the total betrayal of the secrets she has kept for fear of death.

How dare he accuse her of such things?! He knows _nothing_ about her, about what goes on between her and her husband, about what has happened between her and the Thief!

She never meant for it to go that far - and it would _never_ have happened if the Thief hadn’t shown up that first time. It was his fault, his idea, his pushing, his insistence! He’s the one who said that she should _take her pleasure,_ and-and-and she just, she went along with it. She had one night – okay, _two nights_ – of satisfaction in _thirteen years_ of lonely, loveless, forced, and sometimes painful intercourse and now _she’s_ being called a whore for it?!

“Don’t go getting your skirt in a twist,” the prisoner chuckles as the door to the room opens. Brody stalks in, his eyes narrowing at the prisoner after he observes the look on the Queen’s face, but she ignores him entirely, because the prisoner is still talking - _oh gods_ \- he’s continuing in that vile, taunting voice. “Why don’t you come back over here and lemme give you what you need-”

“ _SHUT UP!_ ” she screams - hysteria now gripping her, her heart hammering in her ears, hands shaking so hard she drops the whip with a clatter.

But the prisoner isn’t shutting up - _fuck!_ \- he’s still not shutting up!

“I’m a sensible bloke, I’ve got quite the reputation with the girls back home–”

 _No no no_ –

Brody is staring at her with this strange, confused look on his face, his dark eyes calculating.

Her thoughts race, and she wonders what will happen if Brody discovers the obscene things she has done with Robin. And she knows, with absolute certainty, that there is only one answer.

He can’t.

He cannot find out what she’s done, cannot know what reckless decisions she has made with the Thief. He’s the only one of her guards who is truly loyal to her, who has always been loyal, and more importantly, he’s the only one _she_ trusts. But he is still a Royal Guard, sworn to protect the monarchy, and she has betrayed the King in the worst of ways. If Brody finds out what she has done, it will force him to choose – his loyalty to the crown or his loyalty to her – and she can't put him in that position, not without them both ending up traitors, or worse - dead.

She has to stop this. This prisoner knows too much - _god damnit -_ he knows too much!

“Be quiet! SHUT UP you insolent fool!” she shrieks, swipes at the sweat that’s beading on her forehead, her eyes darting frantically around the room, looking for something, _anything_ to shove down his throat as a gag, but she has nothing – _fuck!_

“I’m sure I can give it to you just how you like it - Leopold ain’t got nothing on _the_ Will Scarlet.”

The gleaming onyx in the handle of Brody’s dagger glints in the torchlight–

“I’ll do you rough and filthy, I remember just how my mate said you–”

She loses all control, starts screaming over the top of him, commanding him to, _"SHUT UP! SHUT UP!"_ –

“All you’ve got to do is lemme go and your secret is safe–“

She plummets into a full-blown panic, starts shrieking how she will _C_ _UT HIS FUCKING TONGUE OUT!_ but it doesn’t help–

“Oh, I’ll give you my tongue, love, I _know_ you’d like that–”

In an act of sheer desperation, the Queen snatches the dagger from her Lieutenant and shoves him backward, catching him by surprise just enough to send him stumbling two steps, and she prays it’s enough - he’s fast, gods, she knows he’s fast–

Then she is lunging toward the prisoner, she must _SHUT HIM UP!_ Why won’t he _SHUT THE FUCK UP?!_ –

“I’ll even stretch your pompous little arse, just like–”

She raises the blade–

 _“No Your Majesty!_ ” Brody calls–

“-my mate Robin did.”

The Queen shoves the dagger into the prisoner’s throat, just under his chin, buries it all the way to the hilt so that it’s stuck in one side and clean out the other, and finally - aside from the gurgling, choking sounds stuttering out of the dying man in front of her, and his blood drip-drip-dripping to the floor - it is completely, blissfully silent.

A hand wraps tightly around her bicep and tugs her several steps backward, and Regina startles hard at the touch, but she doesn’t fight it. The world has gone unnaturally still around her; even her insides, which were just quaking with tumultuous emotions, have suddenly turned eerily calm. Her heart rate is freakishly slow, her respirations are chillingly quiet, and she feels like she’s slipped into some sort of trance.

She shouldn’t be reacting like this.

This is not the first man she has killed with her own hand. It’s not even the second, or the fifth, or the tenth.

But it is the first man she’s killed for a reason that is her own, for a reason that is _personal,_ and something about it feels… different.

It almost feels…

_Wrong?_

Brody’s blurry face invades her line of sight as she blinks slowly, and when her vision clears, he’s standing in front of her with his handkerchief out, wiping her face and hands clean of tears, smudged makeup, spatters of blood, and sweat. She allows it, simply because she doesn’t feel like she is capable of movement, even stands still for him when he pulls out a small comb from his back pocket and uses it to tuck back several of her stray hairs.

“May I assist you to your chambers?” He catches and holds her gaze as he awaits her answer.

“My chambers?”

Brody nods, and when she merely frowns in confusion, he tries again.

“You’re looking quite pale, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Pale?” she repeats, staring up into Brody’s dark brown eyes.

Her heart is pounding faster now, _faster_ , picking up speed until it is forcefully _slam-slaM-slaMMING_ against her ribs, jolting her body with each beat. Regina stumbles even though she’s standing still, and Brody grabs her by the upper arms.

He is her highest-ranking guard, and he holds that position because she knows that he charges himself with protecting her in every way, not just physically. She doesn’t doubt that if she so much as hinted at it, that he would gladly take responsibility for the death of this prisoner, that he’d be happy to tell everyone that he did it. He is loyal to her, dedicated – and she knows from experience that he wouldn’t think twice about taking the brunt of the fallout for her actions. Somehow, after all these years, he hasn’t managed to realize that he’s protecting the devil in disguise.

“Please,” he rasps, then repeats it, “ _Please.”_ He is almost begging her, there is blatant concern shining in his dark eyes, and she nearly scoffs – Brody is always trying to mother her.

He’s a fool.

But he's steadfast and decent, and maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t know what an unfaithful whore she is, she can keep him that way.

“ _Please-please,_ ” she mocks him in a silly, sing-song voice. “ _Please-please, please-please,_ ” she has the strangest urge to smile - so she does, though it feels exceedingly odd and a bit creepy, even to her. She pats his cheek sweetly, runs her fingers through his short-cropped, jet-black hair, then she pulls out of his grasp entirely.

She’s fine.

Everything is fine.

It’s just another day. Another death. Another nothing in a life filled with nothings.

She slides her gaze across the dungeon - _it’s fine, it’s all fine_ \- past the crimson-coated cat-o-nine tails and the pool of blood that is slowly crawling across the stone floor, seeping into the nooks and crannies as if it is alive - _it’s-fine-it’s-fine-it’s-fine_ \- then up the bloodied, ruined body of the innocent man she just tortured and murdered.

“Clean up this mess,” she snaps, and if there is a flicker of disappointment in Brody’s eyes, well then, that’s _his_ problem.

Regina takes one final, deep breath, clenches her teeth, tips her chin up and straightens her back. Then, with the poise and composure of the Evil Queen, she struts out of the dungeon.


	9. The Apple Doesn't Fall Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - references to torture, non-graphic hints at child abuse

She’s killed Will.

All it took was one quick, clean slice and a splash of crimson, and she’d nearly cut the man’s neck clean through. Or at least, that’s the story Robin had overheard when he’d slipped past the guard barracks on his way back into the castle the other night.

He admits that the news had sent him into a panic, that he had gone charging straight down into the dungeon without a second thought for the consequences. He had been ready to kill every guard in his path in order to find out what had happened to his friends, and he would’ve started a full-out coup to free them if he had to.

But he had been far too late for it to come to that.

By pure chance he’d timed his entry for when the King’s guards were doing a shift change, so they were proper distracted when he infiltrated the dungeon, and he’d managed to make it all the way into the cell block with very little effort. After a quick search of the dark, dank corridor, he came upon Friar Tuck, who was thankfully still alive, though he was rather worse for wear and nearly inconsolable. It was Tuck who had, with loud sniffles and fat tears rolling down his ruddy cheeks, told him he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Alan in days, and then, even worse, the Friar had corroborated the story Robin had overheard.

Will Scarlet is dead - done in by the Queen’s own hand - simply for being in the wrong damn place at the wrong fucking time.

And Robin, well, he feels like he’s bloody well gone into shock.

He thought… he supposes he’s not really sure _what_ he thought about Regina, or rather the _Evil Queen_ , but after the other night when he held her in his arms, when they touched so intimately, when she kissed him with what he would’ve sworn was affection, he was actually starting to think that she was different from what everyone said she was, from the persona that she showed to the world. He thought that maybe she was _more_ than just the Evil Queen, that somewhere deep down, hidden away and kept safe, she still had pieces of herself that she hadn’t yet weaponized, that she didn’t use to defile, warp, and poison everything around her.

He could swear that he had seen something in her, a softness - certainly not a weakness - but almost a _gentleness_ in her, and she had thrown him off balance. Her actions that night had begged him to open his mind and rethink what he knew of her. She had cried, had set aside her pride and asked him for help; she had seemed so vulnerable, so genuine, trusting and so, so… _human._

But he should have known better.

She’s been playing games with him since she captured him, she’s been torturing him in every way imaginable, and _gods_ \- he has to give her credit, because he never saw this coming. The other night, she had convinced him that she really needed him, that she was having some sort of a breakdown - but oh, he sees it for what it was now - a bloody-fucking-trap.

He saw only what she wanted him to see. Looking back, it was clearly all a setup, a scene she meticulously crafted so he could witness an actress performing for a captive audience - and boy, was she good at it. He let her use him, let her toy with his emotions - he even welcomed it, encouraged her to do it - all until she got him to give her his name, which he realizes now must have been her goal all along.

But apparently that wasn’t enough.

Because then she went and tortured the hell out of Tuck - the poor bastard will be scarred for life - and Alan is probably dead, buried in a mass grave somewhere or his body chopped into bits and chucked into the North river - and Will, well, she straight up slit Will’s throat. All of these were decent men, and even if they weren’t, they’d all done next to nothing to land themselves in her fucking dungeon in the first place.

Maybe they weren’t _innocent_ , but they sure as shit weren’t guilty; and not one of them deserved what they got.

The more Robin thinks about it, the angrier he gets.

And now, well, Robin is apt to believe that the Queen just may be as much of a soulless, miserable harpy - a corrupt, black-hearted bitch - as everyone says she is.

Too bad he’s just another fool who fell for her tricks.

To think, he was actually considering going back to see her again. He had even thought of trying to start some sort of friendship with her once his plans with the Merry Men had been seen to. Obviously, he’s an idiot for even considering getting anywhere near her.

It’s been a few days since Will’s murder now and he’s been warring with himself since he found out, caught between fury and grief, his guts churning, his conscience torn between hating the Queen and hating himself. He hasn’t felt this much like a bloody-fucking-failure in years.

He’s always known the Queen was a threat - but despite her reputation, he’s never really been worried about crossing her. He’s never had any beef with her, and he always thought she was more concerned with herself. From what he's seen, she mostly plays these ludicrous torture games as some sort of sadistic way of amusing herself, so he figured as long as he didn't stray into her path, everything would be fine.

He’d been naive enough to think that if by chance she ever did catch a few of the Merry Men, she would simply lock them up in her dungeon, torment them a bit, and that would be the extent of it. Even after all the pain she had put him through, after the endless hours of torture and solitude, all the deaths and punishments he’s seen her hand out without batting one of her pretty eyelashes, he still hadn’t thought she’d be so savage, that she’d steal the life of his best mate over nothing. Surely, she wouldn’t go around murdering innocent men, just for the thrill of it.

He’s never been so wrong.

The truth of the matter is that he underestimated her - they all did - and he'll never forgive himself for it. Robin had no idea what she was capable of - what she _is_ capable of - but he won't make the same mistake twice.

What’s most frustrating though, is that the other Merry Men weren’t even supposed to be here. _He’s_ the one who’s supposed to be taking all the serious risks. _He’s_ the one whose job it is to find every-which-way to infiltrate King Leopold’s castle, the one who has spent the last three years meticulously mapping out every corridor and discovering each secret passage, committing the entire layout to memory, then working with Friar Tuck to draw up maps for the rest of their mostly illiterate gang.

But now Will, and most likely Alan, have paid the ultimate price, and while it could be argued that they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, Robin knows better. It’s because of _him;_ it’s because he got sloppy, got caught, and then because he couldn’t stop flirting with the Queen, he drew her suspicion to the Merry Men. He’s a fool, an idiot, because he knows better than to let his guard down around a woman, _especially_ a beautiful, _rich_ woman, but he did it anyway, and then her fucking Lieutenant went and noticed his tattoo, and now Will is dead, and Alan is missing, and _gods_ , everything is so bloody fucked up. He’ll be forever grateful that he was at least able to smuggle Tuck to freedom, though he’s certain he used up all his luck for this lifetime and the next to get it done.

Everything is just unraveling so quickly now though, and if he doesn’t put a stop to it, all that he has worked so hard for is going to go to waste, and he can’t let that happen. He can’t let his family down yet again. He swore - he _vowed_ \- that he would avenge them, that their horrible, needless deaths would not go unanswered, and he will have justice if it kills him. And there are others now too, others who are depending on him, who need his intel just as badly, need him to complete his job and get this _right_.

There can be no more mistakes.

The problem is that he has this fire raging in his chest that refuses to quit, and it’s eating away at him, muddling his thoughts and pounding in his ears. He just wants five minutes alone with the Queen. Five measly minutes where he can demand answers that he already knows she’ll never give him.

For some reason he just feels like if he casts his rage in her general direction, it will bring him a bit of relief from the grief, it will bring him some respite from the confusion that’s tearing him apart. He wants to hold her accountable, goddamnit; he wants her to look him right in the eyes and tell him how she purposely fucked with his head, because he’s so, _so_ angry and so messed up over it that his hands shake every time he pictures her tear-stained face.

He wants to know how she could do such a thing, how she ever learned to act so bloody-fucking-vulnerable, so _victimized,_ because she had him completely convinced that she was being genuine, and he swears that he would have gladly fallen on his sword for her that night. She had kissed him, cuddled against his chest, had fallen asleep in his arms as if she belonged there - and _fuck -_ oh how she had made him _want that._ When morning came and the sun was just peeking in through her balcony windows, it had nearly destroyed him to leave without a proper goodbye - but her Lieutenant came knocking - and for the life of him, Robin was _not_ about to spend another minute in that dungeon of hers.

He thought he’d done her a kindness by staying with her all night. He thought that by tucking her in, minding the hearth to keep her warm, and by keeping a watchful eye over her, perhaps she could get some much-needed rest. He’d vowed that _no one_ would touch her while he stood guard - not even the King - and he was more than prepared to cut the hands off anyone who tried.

So if that’s cause for savagely murdering one of the best men he knows, well, the Queen should at least have to look him in the fucking face and own up to it.

He’s convinced himself that he has every right to confront her, that this time he’ll be able to handle her tricks. He even cooked up a solution for getting rid of that ruddy Lieutenant of hers, and he slipped a bit of ground buckthorn bark into his morning oats that will easily have him out of commission for at least a day. Robin needs to face her on even ground, he needs to look into her eyes once and for all and demand his answers so he can get this - get _her_ \- out of his head.

He can’t move forward with the rest of his plans until he does - his mind is too obsessed with her betrayal. He keeps picturing how she would have done it, how she’d have shoved the dagger deep into Will’s throat, how the blood would have drained from his body, how the poor bloke would’ve choked on it. It’s driving him absolutely mad, consuming his thoughts and keeping him awake at night. She should pay for this, she should _at least_ have to answer for it, and it is _that_ thought that pushes him to confront her head on.

He’s hidden in the back corner of her bedchambers tonight - took the liberty of sneaking through the castle via a series of secret passages and then picking the lock to her room - before he wedged himself as far back as he could get behind her large armoire. He’s cast in shadow and mostly covered by the long, dark green damask drapes that frame the balcony, and he’s feeling twitchy as he waits, feeling terribly on edge. He's got a small dagger tucked up one sleeve so he can get at it extra quick, just in case she tries something unsavory, knowing that he can’t take chances with her anymore. She’s more than proven that she’s a bloody-fucking-maniac and he’s sure she won’t hesitate to try to kill him if she gets the chance.

His plan is to catch her off guard, to get the jump on her when she least expects it so he can show her that there are consequences for what she’s done. He wants her to know that she can’t just go around murdering his friends for the hell of it, that he _will_ hold her responsible for this, whether she likes it or not _._ He is _not_ one to be trifled with, _not_ just some dumb-fuck peasant off the street, no. He left that pathetic life behind him long ago, and he'll be damned if she thinks she can just start preying on his friends. She does not want him as her enemy and he's not afraid of her - not for one bloody second.

Thunder rumbles outside, and the pattering of rain against the glass doors of the balcony has just started up next to him, when suddenly the door to the Queen’s sitting room swings open with force. Robin makes sure to tuck himself back as far as possible into his corner of the adjoining bedroom, using a fold in the curtain to watch through as he waits for the perfect moment to strike.

The only problem is, the Queen is not alone.

“Enough, Regina! I will speak of this no more. We have much more important matters to discuss.”

It seems the Queen’s mother, Cora, has accompanied her to her room this evening, and Robin’s stomach churns at just the sound of her husky, drawling voice. He doesn't know that woman, but he's heard many tales of her, and how, if anyone ever thought the Evil Queen was cruel, her mother is ten times worse.

“I was simply inquiring about her health, Mother,” the Queen grumbles. “The last time I checked, that wasn’t a crime.”

“ _Simply inquiring_ ,” Cora mocks. “You’ve asked me fifteen questions in as many minutes, as if I care to know if the girl still has a fever or what her rash looks like today. I have told you for years that your preoccupation with her is distasteful, Regina. When _will_ you listen to me?”

The Queen says nothing, but the two women step into her bedroom, and Robin has a clear view of them now as they move about the large area. Regina turns her back to her mother, and like a well-practiced dance, the other woman starts to work the laces on the back of her daughter’s corset.

“You’re one of the few people who can visit her, Mother,” the Queen’s voice has taken on a softer, almost pleading tone now. “All Leopold will say is that she looks like death. I was hoping you could provide a better description.”

“I _detest_ this color on you,” Cora’s fingers expertly flicker across the laces at the back of the Queen’s beautiful, merlot-colored dress. “Why must you insist on this dreadful color pallet? It makes your skin look sallow, my love, not to mention it’s ungodly depressing.”

“Perhaps I wear it because I am depressed,” Regina deadpans, and Cora scoffs in annoyance.

“What a stupid thing to say.”

A few seconds of silence pass as Cora finishes untying the corset, then Regina heads to the far side of the room to slip out of her dress completely. Robin instead watches Cora, who, the second Regina’s back is turned, quickly glides up to her daughter’s vanity and switches out a small bottle with another one that looks identical to the first.

She’s got a smooth hand, he’ll give her that - had Robin not been looking directly at the exchange when the woman had done it, he would not have seen it happen.

Strange behavior, that.

“Speaking of Leopold,” Cora’s tone has changed now, has a sinister, yet sweet lilt to it that grates on Robin’s nerves as she steps back from the vanity and casually leans against one of the posts of Regina’s large bed. “He told me you threw yet _another_ tantrum. What is that - three? Four times now? Just this week?”

“He…what exactly did he tell you?” Robin looks to the Queen and she has changed into that silky black robe she favors. She looks gorgeous as ever - her long, equally dark hair is half up, half down tonight, and she has fixed her expression into perfect stoicism, so she’s looking very regal indeed, but her hands give away her anxiety when she knots the belt of her robe with so much force that she yanks herself off balance, and Robin nearly laughs.

If she wasn’t a murdering lunatic, she’d be adorable.

“That you had found yet another way to make your marital bed even more unpleasant for him. He says you’ve starting fabricating weepy anxiety attacks mid-coitus, then throwing childish temper tantrums at him, and I must say Regina, I'm extremely disappointed in you. We both know that I raised you better than that.”

Despite himself, despite _everything,_ Robin’s upper lip curls in disgust. Although he happens to be extremely angry with Queen Regina, he really hates that this other woman would dare to place the blame of any bad experience with that flabby, incompetent, piddling excuse of a King on her. It shocks him that she would treat her own daughter this way.

“My marital bed is hardly your business,” Regina strides to her vanity and takes a seat in front of the mirror, then starts pulling the silver pins from her hair.

The rain outside has picked up, is falling in sheets as the Queen’s hair tumbles down in unruly kinks and curls, and Robin’s traitorous fingers ache to run through it, to stroke, and smooth, and let the thick, heavy strands caress his skin. He remembers the intoxicating scent of her hair, how the soap and water made her skin smell impossibly more enticing, and as the rumbling thunder intensifies outside, rattling the glass, he swears his attraction to her is somehow connected, that it vibrates inside of him on a level he’s never felt before. His body is thrumming with hot energy just watching her go about her business, from just remembering the heat of her pressed against him, and his confusion over her escalates, further divides his conscience, and starts to make him question things. His anger is tempering just watching this interaction with her mother, because again, she just seems so damned _normal,_ so vulnerable, and he wonders if there is more to her, just like he had the other night.

But that doesn’t change the fact that Will Scarlet is still dead, and really, who’s to say _this_ isn’t all an act?

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” Cora comes to stand behind her daughter, then reaches out and leisurely picks up the large silver hairbrush from the tabletop in front of them.

Regina visibly flinches the second her mother touches the hairbrush, and Robin can see her oh-so-slightly leaning away from it as Cora brings it past the side of her daughter’s face with agonizing sluggishness, almost as if she’s purposely showing it to her. Without saying a word, Cora then starts running it through Regina’s hair, unbidden, and Robin’s frown deepens as Regina goes completely still - her back straight, hands tucked securely in her lap, fingers clasped so tightly he can see the whites of her knuckles in the mirror.

“ _Everything_ is my business,” Cora says _firmly,_ brushing Regina’s hair in long, steady strokes from the base of her head, all the way to the ends. “And it’s time you invested your energy where it belongs.”

Robin observes Regina closely as her mother brushes her hair. Her eyes are downcast, staring hard at the vanity top, and she hasn’t spoken a single word since Cora picked up the hairbrush. In fact, she’s holding so still it looks like she’s barely breathing.

Something about this doesn't feel right, and Robin’s stomach suddenly feels sick.

“You’ve had thirteen years to bear a child, Regina,” Cora’s voice is getting harsher with every word, annoyance lacing the edges. “And it’s well-past time that you secure your place as Queen. You’ve been blinded by your love for Snow White, weak for her affections. You haven’t been thinking clearly. You haven’t opened your eyes and realized that if Leopold’s only child dies and you _still_ haven’t given him an heir, that you will lose what little use to him you have.”

Cora is brushing through the Queen’s thick hair rather roughly now, running the brush deeply through the strands, pulling hard and mercilessly breaking up any tangles in one tug instead of working carefully through them. The Queen’s head jerks with the force, but she doesn’t otherwise move, and she does not make a sound.

“In thirteen years, you have done _nothing_ , you’ve given him absolutely no reason to keep you. You are a girl of few talents - gods know you weren’t blessed with my magic - but with your beauty you could’ve at least _tried_ to win his favor. Men are such fools; you would have had no trouble seducing him had you even bothered to try _._ But you haven’t tried. You haven’t contributed to your marriage at all. All you’ve done for over a decade is complain about how terrible your life is with a man who gives you anything you could hope for and asks absolutely nothing of you in return.”

Suddenly Cora tosses the brush at the vanity, which it clatters against loudly, and Regina startles so hard at the sound of it that her clenched fists come up defensively in front of her face, as if she’s expecting to be struck.

And Robin realizes... that's because at some point - probably many times - she _has._

His jaw aches with the force with which he grinds his teeth, his face feels hot, and his hands curl into fists at his sides. He should not feel protective of her.

But he does.

Cora has a small, smug smile playing at her lips as she gathers up her daughter’s hair in one long, thick ponytail, then there is a small, red puff of smoke, a stretchy band appears between her fingers, and she wraps it around Regina’s hair to hold it up. As Regina quickly lowers her hands back into her lap, Robin notices that her cheeks and neck are colored now with a red flush - embarrassment, he thinks - and it irks him that _she_ should feel that way about her reaction. She shouldn’t - it is her _mother_ who should be ashamed of the way her own daughter flinches at such a small action - and he's got to bite his cheek to keep his internal indignation at bay.

“Now, consider this my final word on the matter. Snow White is no longer a concern of yours. Your concern – your _only_ concern - from this point forward, is getting pregnant.”

“But Mother, that’s–”

“Enough! You will keep that insolent tone to yourself!” Cora barks, curling her hands over Regina's shoulders like claws and giving her a little shake. “I know you’ve been prohibiting it, that you’ve been thwarting Leopold’s attempts, but the time for games is over! It’s time to grow up, to face reality and to stop squandering your time indulging in that sorry excuse for a Princess who - mark my words, Regina - when she comes of age, she will only ever seek to steal what is rightfully yours. It’s time for _you_ to be in control, to claim the power that is yours and become the Queen you were meant to be!”

There is a heavy pause where the two women stare fiercely at each other in the mirror, both sets of eyes blazing. Robin wonders if Regina will snap back at her mother - she looks furious, her eyes are red-rimmed, her brow furrowed, and he can see the fine, corded muscles in her neck straining - and for a moment, he thinks that she might.

But suddenly, the hairbrush on the vanity flips over on its own, the silver handle makes a loud _clack!_ against the countertop, and both women startle hard in reaction.

Robin startles too, takes less than a half of a second to regain his composure, but when he looks back at the pair of women, he immediately notices that Regina has dropped her gaze to her lap, and Cora is tightening Regina’s ponytail with a look of extreme distaste on her thin lips.

Gods, magic is a strange and terrifying thing.

“Having Leopold’s children will do that?" Regina asks quietly, still looking at her hands for a moment before she slowly raises her eyes to look up at her mother in the mirror. “You really think that having his children will... will change things?”

Cora shifts to the side of Regina, where she uses her fingertips to turn her daughter’s face to her, runs her fingers over the curve of Regina’s cheek and corrects, “His _heir_ , my dear; bearing his _heir_ will give you control, it will give you power. And that is all you need.”

Regina nods her understanding, and Cora bends to kiss her forehead in apparent approval, then steps back.

“Now, to bed,” Cora instructs. “I’ve already spoken with Leopold and assured him of your dedication in making up for these unfortunate experiences you’ve been subjecting him to. Judging from his irritation, my dear, you’re going to need every ounce of your energy to regain his favor.”

Robin fights an enormous, and completely unwelcome, wave of anger as he watches Regina immediately shove her hands deep into the pockets of her robe. He does not want to feel protective of her, he wants to be furious with her, and he is, _damnit_ , but still, he can’t help but to wonder if she’s hidden her hands because they’re shaking, or because she’s balled them into fists like he has.

Robin fucking hates King Leopold. He’s hated him for ages - long before he knew a thing about Regina - and he hates him exceedingly more than he hates _anyone_. Just the thought of Regina having to _make things up_ to that fat lousy git after what Robin knows that bastard does to her has got his temper soaring, has quite literally got him sliding that little dagger down his sleeve in pure aggravation, ready to knife the dirty rotten wanker _right now._

But he can do nothing at the moment, nothing but watch in silence as Cora has the audacity to smirk, to fucking _smirk_ at her daughter’s expression - which appears to be some awful mixture of disgust and dismay - then she pats her on the cheek condescendingly and states, “Maybe this time you’ll learn your lesson.” Then without another word, she struts out of the Queen’s room.

It takes a few seconds after her mother is out the door for Regina to rise from her vanity and cross into the adjoining sitting room. Robin hears her lock the door that leads into the corridor, then he waits rather impatiently as she silently pads back into her bedroom. He assumes she’ll go back to her vanity and finish her bedtime routine, but instead, she stands quietly in the middle of the room for a moment, her dark brown eyes squinting as she stares straight down at the floor, her brow pinched in concentration, her hands dangling loosely by her sides.

Robin considers making his move - she certainly seems distracted enough for it - but there’s something in her demeanor that stops him. There is an almost vacant expression on her face, a glassy look in her eyes, an unnatural stiffness to her posture that, quite frankly, makes him feel like shit for being here. It’s not like he had admirable intentions in the first place - no, his intention had been to tear her a new one for the dreadful things she’s done, for her brutal, devilish actions that have taken the life of his mate. But - _fuck_ \- there she goes looking all human again, and now… now he’s second guessing himself _again,_ damnit, and he’s got so many emotions jumbling around in his chest that he doesn’t know what the bloody hell to do, so he just stays still.

Lightning flashes, quickly followed by a long, low rumble of thunder, and the Queen’s head turns toward the balcony. The rain is falling in buckets now, slamming against the glass doors that lead outside, and the next thing Robin knows, she’s walking straight toward them. When she reaches them, she grasps the handles firmly and wrenches them wide open, then to Robin’s utter shock, she strides right out into the pouring rain.

She’s soaked through within seconds, but she makes absolutely no move to shield herself from the storm, not even when thunder _booms!_ loud enough to rattle the glass panes of the doors. No, the Queen just stands there in her thin, silk robe with her face turned up to the sky and lets the rain pelt the life out of her. The wind whips her ponytail around wildly, peels open the sides of her robe and makes the sodden flaps flutter chaotically, the wet fabric slapping viciously against her, wrapping and unwrapping itself around her calves, and Robin knows that it must be painful for her to let the elements ravage her this way, not to mention bloody-fucking-freezing.

And - _Christ_ \- now he’s feeling stupidly conflicted, because while his head is telling him that now’s his chance to make her pay for murdering Will, that he ought to close the balcony doors and lock her out there, his bleeding heart is telling him he’d better get his own arse out there and save her.

 _Fuck_.

This woman will be the death of him. He’s sure of it.


	10. Cages and Crowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - suicidal thoughts and themes, self harm, graphic violence, themes of domestic violence

She prays for lightning to strike her. For the rain to drown her. For the wind to throw her from the balcony.

Anything to take her away from this place, this pointless, worthless life. This life where she’s murdered a man, an innocent man, simply because he said things about her that were… _true_.

As it turns out, the most terrifying, the most _damning_ of Will Scarlet's accusations wasn't the fact that she is an unfaithful, adulterous whore. It's that Regina knows each of her husband’s ineptitudes as King, yet she has done nothing about them.

She knows well the state of her Kingdom, probably better than Leopold does. She knows of his lackadaisical security measures at the borders, the unfair taxation, all the highway robberies, the looting, and general banditry that goes on.

She knows of her husband’s terrible trade agreements that, due to Leopold’s inability to hold his ground and only ever issue empty threats, have put the Enchanted Forest at a disadvantage with several other Kingdoms, _including_ her mother's kingdom of Misthaven. It’s widely known that their people are less prosperous than ever, that they are starving because of Leopold’s mistakes.

But the truth is, so long as Leopold is blissfully wrapped up in his little world as the Kind King with his perfect daughter Snow White to keep him busy, there’s not a damn thing anyone can do to change his mind about the way he rules. Any and all complaints are to be vetted through the Evil Queen, and the Evil Queen couldn’t care less about their concerns.

So, Will Scarlet was right in what he said about her, and he had every reason to be furious.

Because no decent person would have stayed in Leopold’s bed for this long, knowing what she knows, without at least trying to fix some of the wrongs. No decent person would have obediently parted her thighs night after night without once fighting back, without once even mentioning that his people were suffering, without once suggesting that perhaps he should consider changing his approach.

She has never offered him her opinion. Has never tried to give him her advice.

She is _not_ a decent person.

And while she has casually handed out death sentences, has been the one to put an end to criminals and thieves, trespassers, and traitors, has even slit a man’s throat herself before, she’s never killed an _innocent_ person. A person that she didn’t have any evidence against in the slightest, who she didn’t have any real reason to kill, other than her own shame and humiliation.

Not until now.

So now she is a real murderer.

A murderer, and a whore.

The rain pelts against her skin like the stinging spray of sharp tiny stones, but Regina doesn’t move away from it. She’s shivering hard from the frigid, whipping wind - her nose, fingers and toes all smarting from the assault - but she doesn’t care. Lightning cracks brilliantly overhead, followed quickly by the menacing grumble of thunder, and she opens her eyes to the black sky, squinting as the rain assails her.

For a second, she thinks she could end it - that with two swift steps she could hurl herself right over the balcony and hope that she breaks her neck, that perhaps no one would find her until the morning, and she might simply drown in a puddle, but no. She has tried before to end her life and has never succeeded, knows that it isn’t worth trying again - something always gets in the way. And there is something to what she’s doing now, at least, something to the excruciating pain that’s tormenting her body, in which she feels that she can provide a tiny bit of recompense for the terrible sins she has committed. She deserves every ounce of this pain, this _punishment -_ it is nothing compared to what she has done.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Regina turns, her eyes wide, pulse flying into triple time, her mouth opening in a scathing demand to tell the Thief to leave her the hell alone - but she doesn’t get the chance.

He charges at her much too quickly for her to process, just enough for her to catch that he doesn’t have any sort of shirt on, as he - _what!!!_ \- grabs her around the waist and hefts her up over his shoulder like she’s a sack of produce.

Regina yelps loudly - _foolishly_ \- in protest, never has she been so manhandled. She tries in vain to shove at his slippery, rain slicked back, but it does no good, while he marches back inside with her, and she’s forced to simply dangle over his broad shoulder, his arm locked around her waist to keep her in place. Once inside he pauses to close and lock the balcony doors, and she notices that his feet, too, are bare, that he’s dressed down to simply a pair of trousers, the damned barbarian, and now that the sound of the rain is muted, she has the insatiable urge to scold him.

“How _dare_ you put your hands on me!” she snarls, “I’ll have your head for this, Thief! Put me down at once!”

“No.”

His statement is simple, clipped, and he doesn’t bother to expand on it at all.

“What do you mean, no???” She tries to shove herself off him again, but he’s much too strong, and his skin is so slippery she can’t get a grip.

“You know what ‘no’ means,” he mutters, crosses the room with her still over his shoulder, her robe _drip-drip-dripping_ and leaving a trail of water everywhere they go.

Her temper rises, and she barks, “I am the Queen! Unhand me!” and when he simply huffs out this hollow, annoyed sounding laugh, she digs her nails into the skin of his back and in one sharp movement, drags them up hard enough that she knows she draws blood.

He curses loudly, and she expects him to set her down, braces for him to even drop her - but he doesn’t. He just tightens his arm around her, and warns, "Don't start something you don't intend to finish."

“But I…” She’s getting a bit of a head rush now from hanging over his shoulder for so long, so it doesn’t come out as tough as she wants it to when she argues, “I didn’t start anything! _You_ started it!”

“ _Christ,_ you're stubborn.” He mutters his response with so much quiet indignation that she’s not sure what to say, so she goes quiet, stops fighting and just dangles helplessly while he does whatever the hell it is he’s doing.

The next thing she knows he’s setting her on her feet though, his hands firm on her hips as her vision goes black for a few seconds. She grabs his biceps for balance and holds tightly until her head clears, and when she opens her eyes, he’s working on the knot of her robe.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She slaps at his hands and he stops, but he doesn’t take his hands away. He just stares defiantly at her for a moment with this irritated, expectant look on his face while she starts to shiver, and when he goes for the knot again, she doesn’t stop him. She allows him to untie the belt and tug the soaked, icy cold fabric off her body, leaving her to stand there with her teeth chattering in her silk, lace-trimmed nightgown.

“ _Of course that’s what you’ve got on_ ,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes sweeping down her body before quickly glancing away from her.

“What does what I’m wearing have to do with anything?” she snaps, and when he doesn’t answer, just squints and huffs a breath as if she should know what it means, she prompts him, “Well???”

“It’s - I - _nothing_ ,” he shakes his head, “But you’re going to catch a damned cold, so com’ere,” and then she sees them - two large, stark white fluffy towels that he’d fished out of her bureau. He picks one up and unfolds it, holding it up in front of her with his arms spread wide, like he expects her to step into it so he can wrap her up like a child.

He’s _got_ to be kidding.

Regina rolls her eyes and purposely ignores the fact that she’s covered in goosebumps, that she’s shivering so hard she can barely keep her feet.

He scowls at her, shakes the towel insistently and says, “I’m trying to help you, Regina. You _know_ that. Now come and dry off.”

“I d-d-didn’t ask for your help.”

He scoffs his disagreement at her, and she glares back at him for several long, drawn out seconds, doing her best to wait him out, determined to win this contest of willpower. But the longer she waits, the warmer that damned towel looks, and when a violent shudder wracks through her and causes her to take a step to catch herself, she finally gives in.

“Fine,” she grumbles, reluctantly stepping into the circle of his arms.

The Thief immediately wraps the large, plush towel around her shoulders and cocoons her in the soft warmth of it, and she’s honestly surprised when he doesn’t gloat over his victory. She expected him to make some snide comment, to rub her nose in the fact that she _needs him,_ but no. A stony silence has taken the place of his typical banter and witty comments as he takes the other towel and, starting with her feet, he begins drying her off.

It’s an odd feeling to have him doing this for her without her asking, without her _demanding_ or ordering it from him, and it confuses her, makes her question everything she thought she knew about him.

“You c-c-came back,” she stutters through her shivers as she stares down at the back of his head, her eyes lingering at the way the rain has slicked his short hairs into tiny little spikes, her frozen fingers so numb she can barely hold the towel closed around her.

He doesn’t pause what he’s doing, doesn’t take a second to even look up at her. He just asks if she saw the letter he left for her, and when she affirms that she did, he shrugs and says, “Told you I’d be seeing you soon, didn’t I? Though I didn’t think it’d be quite like this.”

“No?”

He barks out a laugh and when he shakes his head, a few water droplets fling haphazardly from his brow.

“No, I can honestly say I’d never dreamed that the next time I saw you it would be because you’d just murdered one of my oldest friends, _Your Majesty_.”

The blood drains from her face and dread fills her stomach. A lump forms in her throat and Regina fights the urge to cringe, to shut her eyes and pretend he didn’t just say that. She knew he was associated with the man she had killed, but she didn’t know that they had been close - she hadn’t even paused to consider the possibility. That just, gods, that just makes this even fucking worse, and like a coward, she tries to avoid the conversation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she chokes out, knowing he won’t drop it, but still hoping that he will. She can hear her voice shaking and she prays he thinks that it is due to the cold and not her increasingly guilty conscience.

“No? Doesn’t ring any bells?” he sits back on his heels, and then with one hard shove he pushes himself up onto his feet. Rivulets of water stream down his neck and chest, all the way to where they disappear beneath his leather belt, which is securing his trousers low across his hips, and she feels a little bit bad that he’s gone and gotten soaked on her behalf. Without meaning to, she reaches for him, her fingers itching to trace the flat planes of his abs, and she bites her bottom lip, an unexpected apology poised on the tip of her tongue, but as her hands rise he steps out of reach, and they fall stupidly back to her sides. His eyes flicker over her face then, his anger evident, and when his hands flex she thinks that maybe he will attack her, that he will try to choke the life out of her right here and now.

She certainly deserves it.

She probably won’t even fight back.

He doesn’t step into her space like she expects him to though, doesn’t try to grab her, doesn’t attempt to tower over her or trap her in a corner. Instead, he wraps the towel he was using on her legs around his own shoulders, then takes several steps away from her, so that he’s leaning against her bureau with a casualness that they both know is forced.

He braces his hands back behind him on top of the dresser, his fingers pointing away so that his forearms are facing her, and now the double M tattoo that she’s seen on the other prisoners from Sherwood is on full display.

He challenges, “Now you know, I find that quite strange,” his gaze is dark, angry and almost unblinking as he stares her down, and Regina grips her own towel as if it is a lifeline that will somehow save her from this discussion. “Because I’m quite confident that you do know. In fact, I’d wager you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about.”

“What do you want from me?” she snaps, “An apology? Because you’re not getting one.” Regina tugs her towel closer around her shoulders and starts rubbing it up and down her arms in an uncomfortable attempt to both warm and dry herself.

“An apology?” the Thief laughs, “Do you really think that an _apology_ can make up for taking someone’s life? If I went off to the East Wing right now and murdered little Snow White in her bed, then came back over here and gave my heartfelt apology to you, would that be enough to earn your forgiveness?”

“How dare you threaten Snow!” Regina straightens, immediately grows furious as her mind flies through the options of what is nearby that she might use for a weapon if the Thief tries to enact such a plan. There is a crystal vase and a letter opener within reach - she might be able to throw the vase at him and stab him with the letter opener if she times it right.

“I am most _certainly not_ threatening Snow,” he huffs. “And don’t try and throw us off topic. This isn’t about me. It’s about _you_ and why the bloody hell you felt inclined to stick a knife in my friend’s throat.”

His boldness, his anger and the hurt in his voice all have her heart slamming forcefully against her ribs in sheer anxiety. She can’t answer his question, she cannot justify her actions in the slightest. She’s well-aware that there is no satisfactory response she can give him, and if he continues to push this, the best she can do is to simply disappoint him.

So she goes on the offensive.

“You are forgetting yourself, Thief,” she snarls, “The last I checked, I was still the Queen of this kingdom, and I don’t answer to you. Show some respect!”

“Well, I don’t give a rat’s arse about your title,” he fires back, his voice rough with the grief that bleeds through it, his brow furrowed as he leaves the towel hanging around his shoulders and crosses his arms over his broad chest. “And I’ll gladly treat you with respect, Milady, if you’ll get down off your high horse and give me a little in return.”

Regina stares hard at him - uncomprehending - her brow pinched tightly, eyes narrowed, her jaw working as she tries to make sense of his response. In her entire life, she has never heard of such a thing. _Everyone_ cares about her title - in fact, it’s _all_ most people care about when it comes to her. And no one, not once, not _ever_ , has demanded that she, _a Queen_ , treat someone like him - someone common, a thief, an outlaw, no less - with respect. And why should she? Just because he says so? It’s… it’s preposterous, it’s outlandish, it’s completely ridiculous and totally out of the question!

Isn’t it?

“Look,” Robin lowers his voice, though there is still a strained edge to it, a roughness that gives away his own temper. “It’s just you and me right now. We’re just two people having a conversation, yeah? So I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell me why you knifed my friend.”

Regina scowls. “Why?”

“Because I’m asking you to.”

“Why?” She’s being petty and she’s fully aware of it, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t know what to say, and she feels like she’s going to disappoint him no matter _what_ she says, so she will delay it as long as she can.

“Why?” he repeats with a shake of his head. “Well, for starters, how about because I can’t get you out of my head? How about because I haven’t stopped thinking about you - not for one bloody second - since I walked out of this room, and I haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re playing at, acting all- all _incredible_ one minute, all lovely and genuine, and like you’ve got this sweet soul, and then going completely-fucking-feral in the next. I can’t tell if it was a setup or-”

“Feral!”

Regina is so offended that she cuts him off, forgetting the cold of her bones as her temper tries to overpower her guilt. “You’re talking about me like I’m some sort of wild animal!”

Her eyes flash and she swears she’ll make him pay for such an insinuation. She is a lady, a Queen - she is much more refined than that!

“That’s right, _feral!_ ” he snaps. “I’ve spent most of my life in the forest, and I’ve crossed paths with all kinds of beasts. So I know from experience that even the fiercest of them _always_ has a motivation for killing - hunger, territory, dominance, what have you - but _you’re_ the first I’ve ever met that seems to do it purely for fun.”

She’s across the room in a heartbeat, her hands connecting hard with his shoulders as she slams them into him and yells, “How dare you insult me?!”

He growls, “You insult _yourself_ ,” then takes a quick step back as she shoves him again and he challenges, "Prove me wrong, then - tell me what happened."

“Shut up!”

“Why? Does it make you feel bad to hear your sins said aloud?”

She slaps his face and he scrunches his eyes shut as his head snaps to the side. Her palm burns with the pain of the contact, but she ignores it and snarls back at him, “Shut up because I _said so,_ because I command it of you!”

“You expect me to take orders after what’s happened?” he laughs in disbelief. “After you’ve held me against my will, _tortured_ me for weeks on end and murdered my mates - you think I oughta get down on my knees and worship you?”

"You will get on your knees, because that is where you belong, you double-crossing, underhanded, two-faced _ass_."

The room is starting to spin, her face feels hot and her heartbeat is erratic against her chest.

“Oh, I'm two-faced? That’s rich, Regina - or wait, should I say, _Your Majesty?_ ” Robin shakes his head, and Regina’s chest aches at the hurt and betrayal that drips from his tone. “You know, I have to hand it to you - you certainly know how to fool a man. You got me the first time with that little _help me_ trick, and here you almost had me again - but I’ll be _damned_ if you make a fool of me twice. I dunno what the fuck I was thinking, I should never have come back here.”

He turns as if he’s about to leave, and this sensation of dread flares within her so hard, _so viciously_ , that it feels like every single frustrated cell in her body just bursts all at once, and something inside of her _snaps_. She panics - moves without even knowing what she’s doing - and throws herself between him and the large double doors that divide her bedroom and sitting room.

And then, before she can stop herself, before she can even tell herself not to do it - she’s attacking him.

She’s hitting him, slapping him, shoving him away from the doors and clawing - digging her nails into his chest and neck, drawing blood - scratching, and biting, and fucking _raging_ like the wild animal he just accused her of being.

“How dare you!” she snarls, getting in a good scratch across his pectoral muscle. “You know nothing about what happened in that dungeon! Nothing!” She shoves him and slaps his face again.

“So tell me!” he yells back, grunting under the slap of her palm, hissing at the bite of her nails, but she doesn’t hear him - she’s lost to her panic and fury.

“You know nothing - _nothing_ about me, _nothing_ about my life!” She drives her nails into his neck and digs in, “How dare you judge me!”

He’s bigger than her, and faster too, because she only gets a few more solid hits on him before he has enough of the abuse and he tries to fend her off by taking a hold of her wrists.

She’s not having that though - she knows how to fight well-enough and she tries to drive her knee into his groin, only to be blocked by his own knee and met with his harsh rasp of, “Bloody hell, _stop this!_ ” as she continues to twist and flail in her attempt to beat the living hell out of him.

“I will _not_ stop!” she yells, kicking at him and slapping her palms _hard_ against his chest. She wants him to suffer, wants to hurt him as badly as possible, wants him to feel this excruciating pain - the same pain _she_ feels, only hers is on the inside. “I will not! _You don’t control me!”_

He goes for her wrists again, but she wrestles free and grabs his forearms, digs her nails in and, with all the force she can muster, she sharply drags them down. She knows she's done some satisfactory damage when he hisses loudly, and she can feel his skin peeling up beneath her nails, the warm wetness of his blood against her fingertips, just before she finally connects her knee with his stomach.

She can see the change in his face before it happens - when he goes from simply putting up with her to actually fighting back, and she'd be lying if she said her heart didn't drop with the slightest twinge of apprehension. She knows what he's capable of - has seen him fight, has seen him kill - and as he reaches for her once more, she can see that it's no longer a game, it's not self-defense, he's not even trying to teach her a lesson. No - _this_ is a full out brawl.

_Good._

She's proud of herself for getting in a solid right hook to his jaw and a hard bite to his left shoulder before he gets the better of her, spinning her around and pulling her arms straight back so he can twist them up behind her. She screeches in protest, fury surging through her as he fights with her, propelling her forward while somehow managing to avoid her kicking legs. With her arms held so securely she gives up on using them and starts cursing the life out of him, telling him how much she _hates_ him, how she wishes she’d never met him, how the second she gets free, she’s going to have him stuffed and turned into an ottoman for her sitting room. A _headless_ ottoman.

When they crash against her bed he shoves her facedown over the edge of it, and the motion knocks the wind out of her lungs, stealing the next venomous insult that’s poised on the tip of her tongue. The blankets twist and tangle as she jerks and wriggles beneath his grasp, trying like hell to throw him off her, unwilling to give up despite her clear disadvantage and ignoring his requests for her to, “ _Stop with this madness!_ ”

Finally, she manages to slip one hand free - the blood from his forearms has made things slippery, made it hard for him to hold her - and she flails wildly behind her, blindly swinging at him, grappling for something that will help her to get the better of him.

He’s breathless as he growls, “ _Christ_ , woman, you’re gonna fight me to the death, aren’t you?” to which she vehemently agrees, “ _And then some,_ ” when finally, her fingers curl around what feels like the small, smooth handle of a knife. With a hard yank, she pulls it out from wherever he had it hidden, and then, without any regard for what damage she might cause, she starts to slash at him with it. She doesn't care if she cuts herself, so long as she teaches him what a worthless, insignificant peasant he is, who has absolutely no right to judge her for whatever terrible sins she has committed.

She drives the knife into something hard, something _solid,_ and she hears the Thief’s harshly grunted, “ _Fuck_ ,” before her wrist is bent awkwardly in the opposite direction, causing her to yelp and release it.

His voice is hoarse when he snaps, “Stop it, Regina, _for fuck’s sake,_ I don’t want to hurt you, and I'm not trying to _control_ you! But you’re bloody-well trying to kill me! _Stop it!_ ” but she stubbornly snarls back, “I’m never stopping! Not until I have your head!”

In the very next second though, the powerful, forceful slap of his hand against her rear has her shrieking loudly, the stinging pain forcing her to stop thrashing against the bed, ceasing all movement as it radiates up her spine and steals her breath.

“ _How dare you,_ ” she growls against the mattress, utterly _furious._ Tears are welling in her eyes but they’re only partially from the pain. Why can’t she _ever_ win?

The Thief huffs, “ _Well what would you have me do?!_ ” before he blows out a breath and warns, “Just, _fuck_ , just stop trying to kill me! I don’t want to do that again, but I will if I have to.”

In an act of defiance, Regina bucks and contorts her body, using all of her strength as she fights his iron-like grip and roars, “I’ll never stop! You deserve to die! You and all your friends! You’re nothing but a bunch of filthy, disgusting, worthless rats! I’ll kill every last one of you!”

_Smack!_

He slaps her ass again, and this time it wracks all the way through her, stings both cheeks and makes her grit her teeth as a whimper escapes her.

They’re both silent for a few seconds, the sound of their labored breathing the only noise that fills the room, and she feels his grip on her arms loosen the tiniest bit. She almost rolls her eyes - he probably thinks that he's hurt her, that his spanking is some sort of punishment that is outside the realm of pain she's ever endured.

But that’s not at all the case.

She’s been through worse punishment, _far worse_ , and the sound that slipped from her had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the fact that the way his hand felt slapping against her ass felt like _penance -_ sweet, blissful, almost erotic - and it has her arching her back and almost hoping he’ll give her a few more.

She deserves it - deserves to pay for what she’s done. She _knows_ she does, and she wants it, this pain, _needs it_ \- perhaps he will give it to her.

“The second I get free I’m going to set a bounty on your head,” she snarls. “I’m going to hunt your little gang to extinction; I’m going to flay them alive; I’m going to-”

“Stop it,” he orders her. “Stop this nonsense _right now._ ”

She laughs and taunts him, “Why? You don’t have the stones to hit me again.”

He _doesn’t_ hit her, so she continues, “But first, I’m going to find the village you came from, _Robin,_ and I’m going to burn it to the fucking ground. I’m going to murder every man, woman, and child as slowly, as painfully as possible. I’m going to find your family, your friends, your neighbors - everyone you know and love - and I’m going to carve _your_ name into their carcasses, so everyone will know exactly who is responsible for-”

_Smack!_

His hand slaps down so forcefully against her ass that she yelps and jumps beneath the sting, caught off-guard even though she had hoped he would do it. She is desperate for it - wants so badly for him to hold her responsible for what she has done, for what she very well _may_ do.

Oh please, _please_ won't he hit her again?

“You’re not going to do any of those things,” he snarls quietly.

“You are such a typical man, _just like the rest,_ thinking you can control me,” she laughs derisively and feels disappointment well in her chest. “I will unleash hell upon you. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Now who’s judging?” he scoffs. “I didn’t say you weren’t capable - you most certainly are. And controlling you would be about as effective as controlling the tide, I’d imagine - I’m not stupid enough to even try it. But you’re not fooling me with these vicious threats, Regina, so stop baiting me, stop pushing me, stop acting like a bloody-fucking-brat and just _listen._ ”

Regina growls against the sheets, clenches her fists and tries to come up with a cutting remark, but he continues before she has the chance.

“You don’t know a single thing about me, but since you’re so keen on accusing me of things I have _no_ interest in, I think I’ll take a moment to educate you on what you really should know.” His hand presses down firmly on her lower back for a moment as she breathes heavily into the soft blankets beneath her face.

“I have zero interest in controlling you, or _anyone_ else for that matter. Not now, not _ever._ ”

When she fights his grasp again, flails wildly beneath him and wriggles like mad, his hand slaps against her right ass cheek - lighter this time, but still enough to give a little sting - something… happens. Heat suddenly flares between her thighs, makes her clench them together, and she moans into the blankets, unable to suppress it.

 _Gods,_ that's painful, it feels absolutely terrible. And at the same time, somehow, it feels… incredible. She feels… aroused.

_Fuck._

“My purpose tonight was to get answers about Will,” the Thief’s hand is on her lower back now, smoothing across it almost apologetically, and when it trails ever-so-slightly lower, she accidentally arches up to his touch. “I don’t presume to know a damned thing about what other drama is happening in your life, nor do I particularly care.”

He sighs and continues, “It goes against everything in my nature to strike a woman, but I _will_ defend myself. And since you won’t talk with me, I guess this is the only way to hold you responsible for your actions, yeah?”

He waits, and waits, and _waits -_ and Regina holds her breath, waiting for him to strike her, her anxiety and anticipation mounting by the second. And still, he _waits._

Then it finally occurs to her that he’s waiting for _her -_ he wants _her_ to decide if she’s willing to talk now, or if she’d rather have him strike her for what she’s done and… well, that’s easy.

Her voice is low and rough as she murmurs, “Do your worst.”

He sighs, then his hand rises and slaps down _hard_ , and Regina scrunches her eyes shut as the shock of stinging heat blooms and spreads over her left ass cheek. Once again, she is unable to suppress the hoarse, desperate moan that slides out from her throat, and she can feel her clit throbbing now, wanting so badly to be touched that she’d do just about anything if he’d offer to slip his hand between her thighs and rub her for a few seconds.

“This first one’s for Will,” he says quietly. “Then for Tuck, Alan, and for knifing me tonight.”

He slaps her ass again, then again, each time eliciting that same, needy moan from her, and by the third strike she’s panting, shoving her ass up at his hand and feeling herself grow increasingly slick and swollen with desire.

It’s so wrong, so inappropriate - but it just feels so fucking right.

_Slap!_

“ _Oh god!_ ” she moans - loudly, _embarrassingly -_ shoves her ass up before she can help it, then catches herself and hides her face in the sheets. Oh please, _please_ don’t let him have noticed. Somehow, some way, please let him be ignorant to this effect he has on her.

“Christ,” he mutters, lets a few seconds of silence tick by before he quietly asks, “You like this don’t you? You _want_ me to redden your arse.”

Confusion is evident in his tone as his hand trails from her lumbar, down to graze the curve of her behind. “Feeling guilty, are you?”

“ _No_.” She can hear the obstinance in her own muffled voice and it makes her cringe.

“It’s about sex then, is it?”

“ _No!_ ” she says it much too quickly, and they _both_ know it. She’s just grateful he can’t actually tell how aroused she is, that he doesn’t know that her underwear are already soaked and sticking to her, and her clit is swollen, throbbing in time with her pulse and aching with the need for attention.

“If you’re going to lie, then I’m going to leave.” He pulls his hand from her back, and the loss is so acute she has to press her face hard into the mattress to hide her disappointment. “You may be caged here, Regina, but I am not, and I won’t waste my time chasing my own tail.”

“I am not in a cage,” she grumbles, lifting her head. She wants to keep him here, but is still unwilling to give him the honesty he’s asking for.

He leans down to the side and eyes her like she should know better. “Aren’t you, though?”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She is flushed and full of resentment, a scowl firmly in place, her lips parted on short, angry breaths, even as his hand reaches out to brush a few heavy locks of hair out of her eyes.

His voice is quiet but calm as he plays with the strands of her hair. “I look around here and all I see are bars, all I see are the cages they put you in.” His clear blue eyes pierce into hers and she wishes she could look away from him, could look anywhere else, but for some reason, her eyes stay glued to his.

“Take this castle, for instance. When’s the last time you were allowed to leave it?”

Regina rolls her eyes at him, seeing his point but unwilling to argue. She is the Queen, she belongs in the castle regardless of whether she _wants_ to be in it. So what if Leopold leaves her behind when he visits the other estates? So what if she hasn’t visited another kingdom in nearly a decade? It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean that she’s trapped here, that she’s in a _cage._

But he boldly continues.

“And how about your marriage?” He’s looking at her like he pities her, and she _hates_ him for it, curls her upper lip in indignation and starts to interject, “How dare you–” but he talks over her before she can get it all out. “You’ll never convince me you chose him, Regina. You’ll never convince me that you love him - not when I’ve seen the way he treats you, not when I’ve seen what he does to you.”

Her face is red with humiliation and anger, there are tears in her eyes, and she wants to scream, wants to throw every item in reach.

“Even your crown is a cage,” he shrugs, and Regina scowls. “And that’s not to mention those nights that you're forced to wear _her_ crown.”

The mention of Eva is just too much.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever?” Regina growls, “You think you know everything about me? You think that from just a couple of evenings you spent as my entertainment, that you have my whole life figured out?”

“Not at all.”

She pushes against him and this time he releases her, steps back and allows her to stand up from the bed. When she gets a look at him, he’s a complete mess. He’s bleeding - his chest, neck and arms all smeared with crimson and bearing the nasty scratches from her earlier attack, and there is a thin trail of blood running down from a wound in his shoulder where she must have stuck him earlier with the knife.

“There’s plenty I don’t know about you, Regina,” he continues, “But darling, you don’t have to be a scholar to see that even though you’re not dressed in irons, you’re as much of a prisoner here as I was.”

She grits her teeth against the tears that burn in her eyes as she tries and fails to think of something to say. What he’s just announced is something she has always known, but never had the courage to admit, and it shreds her, tears her open and makes her feel exposed and vulnerable in a way she hasn’t ever felt with anyone else.

“Oh, and,” his tone is flippant now, more characteristic of his usual self. “It may interest you to know, when your mother was in here earlier, she swapped out one of your little bottles over there when you weren’t looking.”

Regina’s stomach drops, and when he nods at it, her head whips in the direction of her vanity.

“Which one?” she nearly runs to the other side of the room. “Which one, Thief? Which one?!”

He’s still leaning against her bed, isn’t even looking in her direction, and - gods, this is not good, not at all - she must know what potion her mother tampered with. Her life could depend on it.

“Which vial, Robin?!” she raises her voice and stands up straighter, “You _must_ tell me.”

Her heart is hammering wildly, she has a good idea which potion her mother would have the nerve to mess with, but gods, she has to be sure.

“Tell me!” she demands, “Now!”

He finally turns his head to her, and his expression is dead serious as he says, “Tell me why you killed Will.”

“What does it matter?” She scans the little bottles of potions, makeup, perfumes, and oils but she cannot determine which vial was replaced. They all look exactly perfect, are all in the same position she placed them in this morning. “I killed him. He’s dead. Do you want me to write a book about it?”

“It matters because _he mattered_!” Robin exclaims, but even with his outburst, Regina only turns half of her attention back to him.

“I don’t get you, Regina,” he prattles on. “Don’t you understand that you affect other people? That you _hurt_ other people when you do things like this?”

“So?” Regina growls, still only partially paying attention to him, her fingers flitting across the vials, her eyes scanning for the slightest imperfection, anything to tip her off to which one has been tampered with. “Is this supposed to make me feel bad about what I’ve done?”

“No, I am well aware that I can’t _make_ you do anything.”

She thinks that’s the end of it, and she’s relieved - but then he turns and points his stupid, stubborn finger right at her. “But you know what? I just think it’s rubbish that you behave like this. I think this detached, crazy Evil Queen bit - I think it’s all an act. I think you know _exactly_ what you’re doing, and you _do_ feel bad.”

Awareness prickles across her skin, finally breaks her concentration, and Regina becomes very concerned with what Robin is saying. How the hell can he see through her so easily? And what gives him the right to expose her secrets so carelessly?

“In fact,” he steps closer to her, and she turns to face him, her spine straightening, heart pounding with fear and nerves as he draws in closer. “I think that you’re hurting inside. I think that what I saw the other night - that’s the _real_ you. So what I can’t figure out, is why you keep punishing yourself - you, and everyone else - because it only makes you feel worse, it-”

“Shut up,” Regina growls. She’s had enough, she can’t let him go on, it’s too much, it’s _terrifying_. “Shut up, or I’ll, I’ll…” but he pushes right back with, “You’ll what? You’ll cut my throat too?”

“Maybe I will!” She tips her chin up and tries to look threatening, but they both know she won’t do it. It doesn’t detract from the fact that she’s livid though, and completely unsettled, unable to process all that has happened since he carried her in from the rain.

“Alright then, go for it.” He produces a dagger from his boot, holds it out to her handle-first until she takes it, then spreads his arms out wide. “Butcher me.”

Regina doesn’t move.

She holds the dagger loosely, her fingers splayed open so that it’s just resting against her palm - and she just… she can’t even look at it. All she can think of is the way Will Scarlet choked, gurgled, and gagged. She can almost smell the stench of blood and bowels that filled the dungeon, and then she pictures Robin in his place.

And she immediately regrets it.

She sees the blank, hollow stare that would replace the mischievous light in his beautiful blue eyes, envisions the sunkenness of his chest and stomach as his breath leaves him for the final time. She thinks of the way his body would hang limp and lifeless, the way the blood would soak down his chest, the way his skin would grow increasingly pale as it drained from him… and it takes every ounce of self-control she has to not immediately vomit.

It breaks her, it’s the final straw, and for what feels like the thousandth time in the last few days, she loses control.

“He, he, he wouldn’t _shut up!”_ she stammers, drops the dagger and kicks it away with her bare foot like it’s on fire. She backs up quickly, moves until she trips against the bench of her vanity and sits down hard on it. Her ass is sore and she cringes, but she can’t be bothered to do anything more about it.

Robin’s voice is dripping with sarcasm when he snips, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize talking was cause for capital punishment.”

She nearly combusts with the rage that flashes through her at his glib statement. “I ordered him to be quiet, but he wouldn’t stop shouting disgusting, offensive things about me. He called me a whore for staying with Leopold, kept making comments about how if I’d part my thighs for _him_ , then I’d probably fuck anybody.”

Robin looks unimpressed, completely unfazed, so she narrows her eyes and snaps, “And then he mentioned _you_.”

He frowns, but he does _not_ look guilty, not like he _should,_ and as she continues, Regina starts to feel sick inside with betrayal.

“He wouldn’t stop making humiliating comments about all the ways he’d fuck me, about how he’d do it exactly how _you_ told him I liked it.” She pauses and feels slightly vindicated in the fact that when she glances over at him, the Thief looks mortified.

“I warned him, I _ordered him_ to shut his mouth,” her voice is low and rough now, filled with regret. “I even threatened to cut out his tongue. But then he threatened to expose our secret, he said he had _evidence_ of our time together, and no matter what I did, he _would not shut up._ When he nearly revealed our… relationship… in front of my guard, I just - _gods_ \- I couldn’t risk that getting out. If anyone ever finds out about the things we have done, if there is even so much as a rumor of it, Leopold will lose his mind, Robin. He won't think twice about killing _you_ , and it will cost _me_ everything. If he doesn't kill me, he will use it against me, he will use it to _ruin me_ in every way he can. So when your friend would not shut up about it, I, I just, _I lost it_.”

Regina takes a deep breath, then raises her eyes to Robin’s and states, “So there you have it. I killed him. I _murdered_ him. Everything you’ve ever heard about me is true. I’m as rotten and black-hearted as they say. I’m all of the things that _he_ said I was - I’m sick, and twisted, and a whore who’ll fuck anyone to hold onto even the tiniest sliver of power. I _am_ the Evil Queen, and I’ll kill an innocent man to save my own skin.”

She swallows thickly, ignoring the tears that have welled in her eyes and made her vision blurry as she finishes, “What I have done is unforgivable. It's inexcusable. I know that, Robin. I am a murderer and I don't pretend to be otherwise. But I don't… I can't… I don't have the luxury of regretting it. Not unless I was willing to let some fucking bandit blackmail me into the noose - _or worse._ ”

There’s a long beat of silence that passes between them, where Robin just stares and stares at her, causing her nerves to rise, her fingers to twitch with unease. But then he brings both hands up, scrubs them roughly over his face and says wearily, “Goddamn that Will. He never could keep his sodding mouth shut.”

Regina shifts anxiously, wrings the fingers of her right hand and has no idea what to say to that.

What in the realms is he waiting for? Shouldn’t he be screaming at her? Arguing that she’s wrong, that he deserves a better explanation, that she can’t get away with this?

What is wrong with him? Isn’t he even going to _try_ to punish her?

“The vial your mother swapped is that little purple one there.”

He’s just pointed to her anti-fertility potion, has shown her that her mother has attempted to sabotage her into getting pregnant, and just like that, he’s saved her from an extraordinarily terrifying fate.

“I need a drink.”

He’s already moving into the sitting room, so by the time she disposes of the potion and cleans up her face a little, then throws a blanket around her shoulders and follows him, he’s helped himself to her bar and managed to clean most of the blood off himself.

His comfort level with her room is confusing, the way he helps himself to things is a bit startling. She knows she should question him about it - she doesn't know how he got in here tonight, or, come to think of it, how he got _out_ the other night, either. She can’t bring herself to argue anymore, not when she finds herself tucked up on her chaise, warm beneath her soft cashmere throw blanket, nursing a rather full glass of bourbon as the Thief slouches in the large, wingback chair. It is the first time he’s taken that seat of his own accord, and she just can’t find it in her to ruin the moody quietude that has settled over them.

And she does not want him to leave. Not yet.

They sip their drinks in sullen silence until their glasses are empty, then the Thief stands and refills the crystal tumblers before Regina has the forethought to refuse. Not that she would.

She’s finally feeling warm, all ten fingers and toes are no longer numb, and her cheeks are a little flushed, though that’s likely from the bourbon. Her lips are just the slightest bit tingly, there’s a burn in her belly, and her mind is the quietest it has been in days.

She’s just thinking that this is fine; she can accept it if this is how it all ends with him, she can find a way to get through it, because it’s entirely her fault. She caused this death and destruction, just like she always does, and she doesn’t deserve to be near him, not in any capacity.

Then out of nowhere, he says, “This is my fault.”

Regina scoffs. "How do you figure?"

The Thief sits forward in his chair and leans his elbows on his knees. He keeps his eyes solemnly trained on the amber liquid in his glass as he adds, “If Will hadn’t had anything stupid to say, you wouldn’t have had to shut him up.”

Regina stares at him in shock. He’s blaming _himself_ for this?

“I never dreamed that the two of you would cross paths to begin with, but even if you did, I never would've believed he'd be so fucking stupid as to run his mouth, or I’d have done things differently, that’s for damn sure.”

He sighs and takes a long, slow sip of his bourbon, then looks up at her through his thick eyelashes and explains, “I’d made it back to camp a couple days after the first time we had uh, been together,” a small smile tilts his lips, a blush pinks his cheeks and he ducks his head as if he’s embarrassed.

Regina takes a sip of her own drink and wonders if he _is_ embarrassed about what happened between them, if he regrets it and if he’d take it back if he could.

“Will noticed straight away that something was up with me, and he wouldn’t leave it alone. He was like that - always had to get to the bottom of things, would dog you on it whether you wanted him to or not. He knew me better than anyone and could tell I was… different after that. But no matter what I did, what I said, I couldn't shake him off me. He always was a suspicious bloke, and he could see that I was hiding something - that I was holding out on him.”

Regina tugs her ponytail out, then ruffles her fingers through the damp, thick, curling strands and listens to Robin’s story. She only forced him into a couple of nights of this - of distracting her with his stories - but she misses it, misses _him_ , and she knows this is the last time it will ever happen, so she might as well be comfortable for it.

“One night, it was just the two of us at camp. Everyone else had gone into town to pay the pub a visit but he and I had drawn short straws and had watch duty. I got up for two seconds to throw some fresh logs on the fire and…” he pauses and looks extremely guilty, “the mangy git slipped poppy dust in my canteen. When I came to, he’d ransacked every one of my hiding spots and found something of yours-”

“What did you steal from me?” she cuts in, suddenly annoyed. She always knew he was a damn thief.

“Er, nothing much,” he evades. “Nothing you’d miss.”

“Tell me,” she demands.

Robin looks away and mutters, “Just er… one of your monogrammed lace handkerchiefs.”

Regina frowns and remains dubious of his answer. “That doesn’t make any sense. There’s no value in that. You can’t sell or trade it. What use could you possibly have with my handkerchief?”

She studies him closely as he runs a hand through his hair, and notices that, strangely, Robin’s cheeks have suddenly gone quite pink.

“I, uh, I dunno. There might be a market for the uh, the lace, uh, yeah - the lace. There’s a market for everything, you know, if you find the right buyer,” he stutters, his cheeks growing even more pink. “Anyway, Will started asking questions and he wanted me to turn it into the pot. That’s how it works, you know - everything goes into the pot to be divvied up fair and square and I… I obviously hadn’t turned that in with the rest of my takings. And when I told him I wouldn’t do it, he accused me of having a uh, a crush on you.”

He smiles shyly up at her and looks younger somehow, his dimples are so deep and his eyes are shining, and she almost smiles back before he looks chastened and adds, “He agreed to shut up about it if I admitted that I did, in fact, have a big fat crush on the Evil Queen, and I should have just gave it up but I…” he shrugs. “It didn’t seem like a risk at the time. It was just a handkerchief and I thought, what harm could it do, you know? If it came down to it, I could just chuck it in the fire. And it wasn’t hurting anybody, me having that silly crush.”

“He had details, Robin,” she shakes her head and watches him carefully, trying to see if he’s deceiving her. “He knew things, _intimate things,_ like where you touched me. How would he have known that if you didn’t tell him?”

Robin frowns, shakes his head and takes a big swig of his drink. “I never said a word, Regina,” he looks up at her, and - gods, she wants _so badly_ to believe him. “But I can say that just about everyone at camp has heard _other_ stories about me - they’ve been giving me shit about it for years, about er, my reputation with women. It’s a bit of a running joke actually - _hide your wives from Robin Hood._ I had a bit of a wild streak when I was younger, you see, I liked to experiment, I liked to try lots of different things, and that hasn’t changed.”

He takes another sip of his bourbon and looks at her over the rim of his glass. “A man likes what he likes. Will was probably just running his mouth and feeding off your reactions.”

Regina sighs and shakes her head.

“D’you know, I came here tonight to really let you have it,” he drops his head into his palm. “And it turns out, it’s all my fault to begin with.”

“It’s not.” She frowns, not liking how he has concluded that _he_ is the villain in this scenario, when clearly, she is the one to blame. Will Scarlet read her like a book - he knew he wasn’t getting out of her dungeon alive, so he poked, and prodded, and incited her into a complete meltdown, and he died in the most graphic, most glorious, most talked about way possible.

In short, he got her to make a martyr of him, and she has a terrible feeling about what that will cost her.

Robin swallows down the rest of his drink, stands up and walks over to her bar, where he braces heavily on his hands for a moment before turning back around to cast her a wary look. “ _Christ_ , Regina, I owe you an apology.”

“You’re apologizing to _me_?” Regina is so confused, the conversation is getting stranger by the second.

“If I hadn’t kept that handkerchief, if I had hidden it better, or just not taken it in the first place, Will wouldn’t have had anything to say. And if I hadn’t caught your attention over the last few weeks, you wouldn’t have had any reason to have jailed him to begin with.” He leans back against the thick, marble countertop and hangs his head. “You had to kill him, you had to protect yourself. It’s what I would have done.”

“I…” she’s not sure what to say. That’s one way to look at it, she supposes, but it’s not the whole story. She certainly had other, _less lethal_ options, there was no reason for her to kill the man. She flat-out murdered Will Scarlet and Robin is letting her off the hook much too easily - he isn’t even trying to punish her for what she did.

“None of this should have happened.” One of his hands runs over the back of his neck and scratches roughly through his hair. “That night that we were together, I shouldn’t have gone into the King’s room. I shouldn’t have touched you, I just, I saw the way he was so cold with you, the way he didn’t appreciate you, and I… I wanted… I wanted…” he runs one hand over his mouth and mutters, “ _Fuck._ ”

Her heart is pounding exceptionally fast and the bourbon burns as Regina quickly swallows down the rest.

“What, Robin? What did you want?”

He turns his head, and his tortured blue eyes fall on hers.

“After he was done with you,” she cringes and Robin looks apologetic, but he continues, “I watched you lay so still and so quiet, _minute after fucking minute_ , and I _hated_ it. I saw you suffering and I wanted to help you, I wanted to make you feel better, I wanted to make you feel good - in, in whatever way you would allow.”

His eyes are locked on her as he says this, and Regina swallows thickly as she struggles to meet his eyes. She is ashamed of how she still craves his touch, his attention. Because even after everything tonight, she still longs to touch him in a way that she knows she is not allowed, a way she knows he will _never_ welcome from her - not after the horrid, frightful way she attacked him. But she can’t stop herself from _wanting_ it, from longing to run her fingers across his stubbled jaw, over his wide shoulders, along the heavy muscles that carve out his back. He is so beautiful to her and she hates herself, _hates_ the angry red scratches, the purpling bruises, the nasty cuts, and ugly scrapes that she has inflicted upon him. She _hates_ that she is this awful, _evil_ monster who cannot be trusted not to ruin everything that is _good._ And she _hates_ that she only got to kiss him once before she tore everything to shreds.

But then his expression turns fiery and intense, he stands up straight and his voice is rough as he tells her, “You were so strong, Regina, so steady, and I thought for sure you wouldn’t let me near you. But then you _did,_ and I put my mouth on you, and you were so responsive, so beautiful and so bloody perfect. You probably don’t remember but you threaded your pretty fingers in my hair and - _Christ -_ I just…” he puffs out a breath, smirks and ducks his head. “ _Then_ I wanted to be the best. I wanted to do it better than your husband, better than your _King_ , better than anyone else _ever_ could for you, ever again _._ ”

She bites on her bottom lip and drags her eyes slowly over his chest, up the thick cords of his neck and along the hard cut of his jaw. The curves of his lips catch her eye and she stares at them for a few seconds, her heart _pound-pound-pounding_ before she meets his heated gaze and admits, “Well, congratulations, Thief - you _did_.”


	11. Kisses and Consent

Butterflies are fluttering wildly in Regina’s stomach as Robin tips his head to the side and asks her seriously, "Did I?"

She nods, but then adds, "Though I have to admit that I have not had another opportunity to experience that particular talent, so comparisons are a bit scarce." She feels her cheeks heat but does her best not to look away. She’s feeling a tiny bit bold, just the slightest bit buzzed from the whiskey, and she can’t seem to stop herself from blinking up at him through her long, thick lashes, a little sly smile on her lips, casting him a look that she knows is flirtatious.

She’s aware that what she’s doing is dangerous, that following this direction of conversation is what got her into this situation to begin with, and it’s already gotten at least one man killed. How many times does she have to cross the line with Robin before she learns her lesson? How many more people must die before she gets _herself_ killed?

But his full attention is on her now, there is unabashed heat in his eyes, and every second he looks at her is like the radiance of the summer sun beating down against her frozen skin, thawing her out and warming her up in all the right places. She is greedy, and selfish, and when she’s looking at him, looking at _her_ , she doesn’t care about the consequences, she doesn’t care about _anything_ else. She just wants him to _keep_ looking at her, she wants him to keep looking and never stop.

"You haven't…?" He looks down and frowns, thinks through her confession, then jerks his head back up and exclaims quite bluntly, "He hasn't gone down on you in two years?!"

Regina rolls her eyes and tries not to laugh. "Don’t be dense.” She clears her throat and continues, "My husband can’t make me pregnant by doing either of the activities you did that first time we were together. He has _never_ done them. He has no reason to."

Robin scowls, makes some sort of frustrated growl in his throat and snaps, "He's a selfish pig of a man."

She raises an eyebrow at his treasonous insult, but instead of correcting him, she simply agrees. “Yes, he is.”

"He does not deserve you.”

She says nothing to his bold statement, doesn’t know how he can be so certain of her value when she is constantly changing her opinion of herself - her regal bloodline vying for dominance against the chorus from everyone around her informing her of how she doesn’t measure up.

The silence hangs thick and heavy between them for several long, tense seconds, then with slow, measured steps, he moves toward her. He comes to stand before her, then finally sinks down into a crouch - but decidedly not on his knees, she notices - so instead of her straining her neck to look up at him, she’s looking down into his eyes.

This is different from all the other times he’s come before her, _exceptionally_ different, not only because he’s not on his knees, but because he’s a free man. This time he’s here because he wants to be, and she hasn’t asked him to help her, hasn’t asked him to stay, but for some reason, he is doing it anyway. He reaches for her hand and takes it carefully between both of his larger, weathered ones, and now when he looks up at her, it is with a determination she has never seen before.

“Regina, I can’t claim to understand you, to know you or what goes on in your head,” he looks up at her and his confusion matches her own. “But I know that I _want_ to.”

She licks her lips and takes a shaking breath, but she can’t say the words back to him, can’t find the courage to tell him how she wants him to know her, too. She worries that she has failed him, that she’s disappointed him, that he’ll grow angry, or worse - he’ll leave.

But he just smiles softly, looks kindly up at her as if he already knows her thoughts and makes her heart positively flip as he says, “And I know that you are stunning - in every way. The fact that _he's_ got you is…" He doesn’t finish his sentence, just shakes his head in frustration, trails off and bows his head so that his stubbled chin is resting against the back of her hand. He sighs defeatedly, clearly lost in his thoughts now, his eyes closed and emotions heightened by the whiskey they have both indulged in.

His fingers swirl a little against both sides of her wrist, his grip just firm enough that it is solid but doesn’t make her feel captive. She wants to comfort him, wants to make him feel better, especially after the way she hurt him earlier, but she doesn’t quite know how. She’s not a giver, not someone who cares for others, who gives her love and affection freely, especially when it comes to men. But still, it was never her intention tonight to make Robin feel like he is to blame for Will Scarlet’s death, or for their inappropriate evenings together, or for so many other things, because she doesn’t believe that he is at fault – not entirely.

They share responsibility in so much of it that she can’t tell where his blame ends and hers begins.

She recalls that earlier he mentioned something about her putting her fingers in his hair, and she thinks he must have liked that if he can remember it after all this time, so she sets down her empty glass and, with a slightly trembling hand, she experimentally threads her fingers through the fine, silky strands at his temple. She prays that he won’t reject her, that after the way she injured him earlier, her touch isn’t as unwelcome as she expects it to be, and when he inhales deeply and sort of curls his body toward her, she takes it as a good sign and starts to lightly scratch her nails against his scalp. She grows more confident still when he tips his head down and presses a kiss to her knuckles, then his soft, knowing blue eyes find hers, and she gets this little shiver up her spine.

Deep breaths. She can do this.

She’s forgotten what this is like, to be alone with a man and not feel obligated, to be looked at like she’s a woman and not the Queen, to be wanted for being _Regina_ , without the name Eva even being mentioned. But it’s coming back to her in a rush of heat and adrenaline that has her body flushing all over, feeling antsy and nervous all at once, making her heart pound so loudly in her ears it’s impossible to hear anything else _._

He lifts his head then, shifts onto one knee, and straightens up so that they are eye to eye. When his gaze deliberately falls to her lips and one of his hands settles next to her thigh on the chaise, _gods_ , her chest expands much too quickly with her next breath.

She wants him to kiss her - it has been far, _far_ too long since she has had any sort of passionate kiss, and she likes him, knows he is a good kisser from just the innocent pressing of lips they shared the other night, and she knows he will be good at this too. She starts to lean in, but then out of nowhere, her mother’s voice is in her head, infecting her thoughts, telling her to _use him, to take advantage of his weakness for her,_ and she falters, drops her gaze and turns her face away.

He should not want her.

In fact, he should _hate_ her.

“I’ve done nothing but be horrible to you,” she rasps, glancing back at him in suspicion and furrowing her brow. “I’ve tortured you, imprisoned you, murdered your friends. Why are you acting like this? What the hell are you doing?”

His expression doesn’t change like she expects it to, he doesn’t become defensive or try to argue with her, and he doesn’t give her some pitying look that makes her feel pathetic. Instead, he reaches for her, slides his large, warm hand around the back of her neck, and when he starts to draw her toward him, she lets him.

His lips are millimeters from hers when he finally stops, and they just breathe each other’s bourbon-laced breath for a moment, their noses aligned and nearly bumping, her heart pounding wildly against her chest. Her eyes keep trying to flutter shut but she stubbornly wills them open, trying to demand with just a look that he gives her an answer, and thankfully he does.

His fingers curl tightly in the soft strands of hair at her nape, his voice as coarse as sandstone as he tells her, “I’m going to kiss you” - her breath catches - “because there is more between us than murder and mayhem, and I’m sick of pretending that there isn’t.”

She’s not sure if he moves first, or if she does, but in a flash their lips are crashing together, pushing hard and moving in this insistent, desperate kiss that steals all the breath from her lungs. She is not gentle with him, nor he with her - it’s not at all like the first time they kissed. No, this time she sinks her teeth right into his soft, thick bottom lip, sucks hard, and presses her mouth forcefully to his, her tongue seeking entrance and _almost_ stroking, _almost_ soothing, but no, she can’t - she’s too worked up and she can’t help pulling back and nipping at him again. It’s complete chaos, all teeth and tongues and the wet smacking of lips, and _fuck_ , before she knows it, she’s shrugging off her blanket and slipping down off the chaise and onto the floor with him.

He sits back and wraps his arms around her as she goes to him, welcomes her onto his lap like he wants her there, like she _belongs_ there - _oh, how she wants to_ \- and he moans into her mouth as she parts her thighs and straddles him. She winds her arms around his neck and shamelessly presses herself against him, reveling in the heat of his bare chest that radiates through the thin, damp silk of her nightgown and warms the hard tips of her nipples as her breasts rub against him.

She adores the way he touches her, the way his hands soothe and openly share his affection, and she can’t help but press her lips to his ear to whisper, _Yes,_ and, _Robin,_ and _Please._ When she threads her fingers into his hair and says the word _more,_ he gives her exactly that by moving his mouth to her neck, and she sinks her weight fully down onto him, basking in the way that his body is so thick and solid beneath hers. His lips trail fire across her skin and she drops her head back as he kisses down the column of her throat, his arms snaking up the length of her back and fisting in her long hair, encouraging her to arch and bare herself further.

She does - she pulls his head toward her as she leans back and closes her eyes, focusing on the way his short stubble scrapes gently against her sensitive skin, the way his lips tug at her when he sucks at her pulse point, then the dip between her collarbones and all along her neckline - and it is heaven, this touch of his, it’s like the brush of magic against her skin.

She scratches her fingers up the back of his neck and presses her stomach against him, wanting him even closer, loving the way he reads her and drops one arm to wrap it tighter around her waist, tugging her flush up against him. She spreads her thighs even further to fit around his hips and huffs out a heavy, desperate breath as her body comes into full contact with his, her nightgown riding obscenely high up around her waist, but she doesn’t bother to fix it. Her hands are busy stroking his neck, his shoulders, his back - anywhere and everywhere she can touch.

Even though they have touched like this before, it hasn’t been like this, it hasn’t been so simple, it hasn’t been just because they _could,_ it hasn’t been just because _they wanted to._

Because of her situation, Regina hasn’t done anything even remotely close to this in over a decade, hasn’t cared to take a lover or even _tried_ to since well before she was married. Not since she was a teenager, since her hormones were uncontrollable and the biggest thrill she could achieve was getting handsy with one of the stable boys when her mother wasn’t looking. But this is so much more.

She feels herself moving against him - her hips rocking, her body sliding, her chest heaving, pushing against every press of his lips in a silent bid for more, guided purely by her instincts. She has never been held in her lover’s arms like this, has never felt this frantic to be claimed by him, has never felt a need for his touch that was so intoxicating in her whole life.

He peppers her jawline with kisses as his hands slide down her body, smooth over her ribs and oh - _ohhh -_ she thinks for a second that he might touch her breasts, that he might slip inward to cup her, to flick over her achingly hard nipples, but no. Instead, he continues his slow descent, tracing her curves and squeezing her hips when he reaches them before he – _mm!_ – skims over the bunched-up edge of her gown and helps himself to two handfuls of her ass.

In retrospect, she supposes she should’ve seen that coming.

He lets out this low sound in his throat as he palms her, squeezing the cheeks of her ass a bit roughly while his mouth nips along the top of her shoulder, and though she’s never been impressed by the animalistic sounds of sex, has typically found the grunting and groaning and other noises to be distasteful at best, this time - _gods_ \- whatever the hell sound it was he just made, well... it was different. The sounds Robin is making cause her to react in kind _;_ his undisguised desire for her makes her feel incredible - _insatiable -_ he makes her feel sensual, he makes her feel… _wet._

Robin shifts beneath her then, and she tightens her arms around his neck as he moves, his hands gripping her under her thighs as he tugs her body against him. Her slick center rubs over the bulge in his trousers and it’s glorious - she wants to do that again, wants to do it without any clothes on, wants him to get her off as soon as possible, so she pushes herself up off him and unsteadily gets to her feet.

“What –”

“We’re not doing this on the floor,” she rasps.

Robin stands up too, then proceeds to press a hot kiss to the high curve of her cheekbone, then her temple, before nudging her face with his nose so that she turns fully to him, and he can kiss her hard on the lips. Gods, he’s distracting.

“Why not?”

“I’m a lady,” she’s stunned, then outraged that he needs an explanation. “I’m not about to rough up my knees on this godforsaken flagstone.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” he smiles and as he steps into her, he bends, grabs her by the back of the thighs, and with a little hop from her, he lifts her up into his arms.

“Where to?” he asks, turning about the room, pointing out options in between pressing kisses to her collarbone. “What is the lady’s preference? The bed? The chaise? The wingback chair? We could try out your writing desk, the legs look sturdy enough…”

He winks at her as he suggests that last one - letting her know he’s clearly joking - and though her nerves are eating her alive, she finds that she has to bite back her own smile. To hide it from him, she tucks her face into the side of his neck and murmurs, “The um, the chaise.”

He moves them quickly to it and, keeping her in his arms, he sits down with her on his lap. She assumes the position will be similar to the floor - she’s already wrapped quite nicely around him for it, but then he rotates and guides her so he’s reclined against the plush backrest and she’s leaning over him. She’s bracing her hands on the curve of the backrest, just above his shoulders at either side of his head, and when he leans up and brushes her hair over her shoulder so he can press a slow, sucking kiss to her collarbone, _oh_ , she’s so glad she picked this particular piece of furniture.

“If I do something you don’t want, or it’s not to your liking, just tell me to _stop_ ,” he tells her, and he looks at her so seriously, for so long, that she starts to feel uneasy. A nervous, disbelieving laugh sort of coughs up from her chest, and when he frowns at her, she averts her eyes.

His voice is firm, but not accusatory, when he asks, “Is something funny?”

“No, not exactly,” she mumbles, then redirects, “I… just don’t start acting like a gentleman now and make this overly complicated. Stick with what you’re good at, Thief, and go back to what you were doing.” She leans down and kisses him, trying to end the conversation for good.

Much to her chagrin, he turns his face and breaks their kiss long before she is ready, his hands cup her cheeks to hold her at bay and he tells her, “Regina, this _is_ complicated. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us. If we continue, I want to be absolutely certain that I know what you want. You’ve got rules with this, and I’m not about to risk being associated with the way that bastard of a husband treats you.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she snaps, suddenly angrily. “Don’t you dare say another word about _him._ I will not discuss my marriage with the likes of _you_.”

Robin’s eyes go all soft on her then, his thumbs smooth along her cheekbones and he gets this sweet, sorrowful look _\- damnit -_ and even though this is beyond embarrassing, she stubbornly refuses to back down. The last thing she wants to do right now is talk about her husband, and she’s not about to be treated like some simpering fool, like she’s nothing more than a victim of circumstance.

_She’s fine._

“You forget your place,” she scolds, pulling her face away as she threatens, “None of that is your business, and if you don’t shut up, none of _this_ will be, either.” She means for that to be her last word on it, but then she stupidly, _defensively_ adds, “Besides, Leopold treats me well within his rights.”

Robin scowls at her, and his hands find her hips, where he holds her tightly. “Then our opinions on a husband’s _rights_ are exceptionally different.”

She scowls back at him, opens her mouth to retort but he’s not done. “And I’m sorry to push this, that it makes you uncomfortable. But I need you to know that I’m not like him, that the second you want to stop, _we’ll stop_. I don’t expect anything, and I don’t want to do anything that you don’t want to do, alright? You’re in control here.”

Regina rolls her eyes and carelessly scoffs, “Well you certainly didn’t stop to ask me all this the first time you touched me.”

It’s the exact wrong thing to say.

Robin instantly drops his hands from her and goes absolutely still. He doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t blink, he just stares, and stares, and _stares_ at her as the silence between them stretches on.

“Gods, I…” his voice breaks and his expression is nothing short of _horrified_ as wetness pools in his eyes and they grow red around the edges.

The second she sees the effect her careless remark has had on him - _shit-shit-shit_ \- her stomach drops with immense guilt. It was a false accusation that she hadn’t meant _at all_. She was just angry, defensive, and she didn’t want to talk about all of this.

But now he looks incredibly upset - _fuck_ \- and anxiety-driven adrenaline floods her veins. Her hands start to shake as she realizes what she’s done, what she’s _insinuated_ , and when he digs his palms into his eyes roughly - _oh no_ \- she feels like the scum of the earth for making him believe he is anything close to Leopold.

She knows she must fix this, but then he starts talking, or rather, _rambling_ , his voice is unfamiliar, shaky and - _no, no, no_ –

“I could- could have sworn you had- had _wanted_ … that you had _said…_ ” he stutters with remorse and confusion. “I’m so sorry, Regina, I–”

She leans down and kisses him to shut him up, because she can’t stand this anguished look on his face, this whimpering tone in his voice. It’s worse - ten times worse - than all the times she _actually_ tortured him. It makes her feel awful inside, makes her hate herself for having put him through it for no reason other than… What was her reason?

Because he said he’d stop touching her whenever she wanted.

She’s still kissing him but he’s barely kissing her in return, his lips aren’t really moving, his chin is tipped down, and then his hands are at her shoulders - _no,_ _no!_ \- and he’s gently trying to push her away. She doesn’t - _does not -_ want that at all, damnit, she wants the _opposite_ of that.

_Fuck._

She cannot have destroyed this - whatever it is with him - before it even began.

“I didn’t mean it,” she hurriedly confesses, kisses him again and forcefully wraps her fingers around his jaw, her other hand curling around the back of his neck so she can pull his head to her and keep kissing him.

“I didn’t mean it,” she repeats, softer now, sweeter, trying to coax him into forgiving her. She kisses his chin, his throat, his cheek, his lips again. “Please, Robin. _Please._ I _did_ want it, I was just angry now, and I… I am well-aware you aren’t like him. Please don’t stop.”

She bends down again and presses her lips to his, hoping to charm her way back into his good graces, and this time - yes, _there!_ \- he kisses her back properly, _beautifully_ , his brow furrowed but his lips sure as they slide against hers. She could cry with relief when his hands tentatively return to her body, smoothing along the curve of her shoulders, his fingers dancing lightly, playing with the thin straps of her gown, shifting them as his thumbs swirl over her.

She breaks their kiss for a breath and presses her forehead to his, unable to stop herself from smiling just a little as she nuzzles his nose with hers in relief. She’s done it, thank the gods, she’s repaired the damage she’s done and all she can think about is how thankful she is for this second chance he’s granted her.

As she leans over him though, the strap on her left shoulder slides down and she's forced to turn her attention to correcting it, knowing that the already plunging neckline of her gown has slipped even further without the support. Sure enough, when she glances down, the top of her breast is now fully exposed, the dusky pink of her areola is nearly showing and if she doesn’t move fast, she’s at risk of her nightgown slipping the rest of the way down.

Robin is quicker than she is though - his ever-observant gaze already having noticed the issue, and his deft fingers slide over her skin to capture her strap before she has a chance to. Instead of tugging it up as she expects, however, he holds it steady where it has fallen. He blinks up at her then, and his eyes - _gods_ \- those pretty blues are so intense, but they’re full of promise, and perhaps a hint of mischief too. She’s quickly coming to love this about him, how he never hides his blatant desire for her, never pretends that he isn't totally riveted.

The way he looks at her makes her heart skip, has her licking her lips and nodding her head in encouragement - she wants him, no, _needs_ him to pull the damn strap the rest of the way down. If he doesn't, she can't be certain she won't do it anyway; she’s been unable to forget the way his hands and mouth moved over her chest those few short weeks ago, and at this point, if he’s not willing to do it again, she might even settle for him just watching her touch herself.

“Tell me to stop, Regina.”

She licks her lips. "I don't want to stop."

"We can at any time," his fingers tease the fabric, tugging it up a fraction, then back down again.

She slowly drags her fingers up his arm to wrap around his, then guides him as together, they start to pull down the strap of her nightgown. "We'll see about that."


	12. Capturing her Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Filthy smut - anal play, rough sex, spanking, other very non-vanilla things  
> Heed the Explicit rating.

Regina releases Robin’s hand as he continues to pull the strap down, and the expression of reverence he wears almost manages to overcome her skepticism of him. She’s still not convinced he can actually do it, that if she asked him to stop that he would. She knows how men are, how they say one thing and mean something else entirely, how they lie and alter circumstances to their every advantage.

She doubts that her Thief is any exception.

But as his other hand rises to cup the side of her neck, then slides down along the length of it, across her shoulder and over the curve of her other arm, and he smiles up at her with those striking dimples, she finds that she wants to believe him. She really wants him to be different from all the other disappointing men she has known, and quite possibly for the first time ever, she finds she's looking forward to _him_ proving _her_ wrong.

He guides her other strap down and she watches his face as he slowly frees her from the silk, exposing her skin inch by inch. When he gets it all the way to her navel, he abandons the fabric, leaving it to pool at her hips as he returns his attention to her now naked breasts.

A shot of nervous excitement flares when he takes a deep breath and bites firmly on his bottom lip. He’s not nearly as put together as he’d like her to believe, she thinks, and for a few seconds she is _almost_ amused as his eyes flicker back and forth between her breasts, as if he can’t decide which one he’d prefer to spend more time looking at. But then, as usual her patience runs thin, and she decides that now is as good of a time as any to see how much he meant his little oath to her.

“Stop.”

His brows raise and his (annoyingly) amused gaze raises to hers as she says brusquely, “I am stared at often enough. Do something else.”

Oddly, he doesn’t take offense to her tone. No, instead, her Thief gets that mischievous little smirk, nods up at her as if he wholeheartedly agrees and says, “Fair enough.”

His hands are on her waist then, slowly sliding up the bare skin of her ribs - _oh heavens_ \- his palms beautifully warm and just the slightest bit rough. A shiver runs the length of her spine and her nipples pebble, gooseflesh breaks across her chest and he chuckles softly, a good-natured sound that she does not expect, nor does she quite know what to do with.

She studies him, equally confused and enthralled with the way he seems so comfortable with touching her, so at ease, as if running his hands over the bare skin of the Evil Queen is the most natural thing in the world. He acts as if she hasn’t spent weeks torturing him, as if she didn’t attack him earlier, as if she isn’t a murderer and a monster. No, he touches her almost like they are long-time lovers, and this is just another night of many they have spent together. Her heart flips in her chest at that last thought, and she foolishly wonders, _what if this is the first of them?_

His touch trails fire over her body, his large hands spread wide and his thumbs stroking as he smooths them further and further up, drawing nearer to the full swells that she’s dying for him to touch. She is straddling his lap, gladly accepting the slow, explorative touches he is giving to her, but she needs him to move faster, to give her more - _much_ more - because there is this simmering heat in her core that needs tending to, and without some sort of friction, it's going to drive her insane. She shifts her hips against his waist, presses down and blushes furiously when she feels the liberal wetness coating her underwear. She’s already made such a lustful mess of herself, if he gets his hands anywhere near her thighs, he’ll instantly know she’s more than ready for him, that there would be no need for oils or any other lubricants, and she has a flicker of self-consciousness about what that says about her. Perhaps Will Scarlet was right; she _is_ easy, loose, even _eager_ \- _shit -_ what will Robin think when he discovers her so needy?

But then his hands slide up to _finally_ cup her breasts and - _ohhh._

She can’t be bothered with thoughts anymore.

He squeezes her lightly, both of his hands massaging her full mounds, and that feels decidedly good - but each of her nipples is teasingly avoided by the placement of his hands. She can tell from the quirk of his lips that he's doing it on purpose, that he's enjoying just working her up - which, from the state of her throbbing clit, he absolutely does not need to waste time doing - because at this point his penchant for anticipation is making her damn hands shake. She rocks her hips and presses down, trying to rub against him to find some friction that will soothe the ache in her core, shifts back a little and - _oh, there_ \- that’s much better. Now she can feel the hard bulge of him pressing up insistently against her through his trousers. Regina already knows what he’s blessed with, knows that he’s incredibly thick, knows how he’s stiff, and smooth, and hot, that he feels just about perfect when he’s fitted snugly up against her core as she grinds her sensitive, swollen clit on him, and she aches to feel that again.

“Oh, darling,” he rasps as she swivels her hips lightly then digs her fingers into the backrest of the chaise, arches and rubs herself more firmly on him. Robin squeezes her breasts and rocks his hips up against her. “You're a vision like this, all flushed with your tits in my hands. You like how that feels? You like rubbing your pretty little clit on me?”

She likes the way he talks to her, this filthy commentary he provides, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she nods. Robin drops one hand to her hip in encouragement, guiding her into a better rhythm, so he’s working against her in counter-time and making the most out of the slight friction they have, and - _ohhh_ that’s it - now her clit is getting thoroughly massaged with every move of their hips. His other palm sweeps over her breast, hefts the weight for a second and cups her firmly, then his thumb starts to flick repeatedly over her nipple - _oh!_ \- and her breath rushes out so fast that she can’t stop the little moan that escapes with it.

“Tell me to stop,” he reminds as he tightens his grip on her hip and lifts his own so her core rubs even more firmly against him.

"No," she grits out in little more than a whisper, unused to this conversation, to being allowed to make any noise at all during sex. “Keep, _mmm_ , keep going."

Robin starts to pluck at her nipple and she nearly writhes on him, arches her back then circles her fingers around his wrist and holds his hand to her, silently requesting him to continue. Oh, how she needs this, needs him to pay this attention to her typically neglected breasts. He does, bless him, his hand is devilishly talented, and it feels so good that she can’t resist joining him.

She slides her hand up and she stares openly as their fingers tangle, her own fingertips joining his in the gentle exploration of her smooth skin. The contrast of her unblemished, diamond-ring decorated fingers intertwined with his weather-beaten, scarred hands is, in her opinion, completely captivating. Her dark nipple flashes beneath the movement of their fingers, disappearing when one of them flicks at it, or pinches, or tugs, and for a few long minutes she is completely engrossed just watching and feeling the pleasure spark from her chest straight to her clit, shameless now about the way the moisture floods from her as she rubs along the hard length of him. They switch sides and play with her other breast, cupping and squeezing, teasing her nipple in the same way, and she swears it’s heaven, parts her lips on roughened breaths, her heart pounding and hips grinding, grinding, _grinding_ down on him.

All the while he continues to encourage her wantonness, purposely using her name as he tells her, “You’re so gorgeous, Regina, that’s it, just feel - let go, let me hear you,” and she soon gets utterly lost in the pleasurable sensations.

She runs both of her hands up her neck and into her hair, then threads her fingers into the long locks and tips her head back, moaning softly when he leans up to flick her nipples with his tongue, switching back and forth between them with light little licks, and - _fuck -_ she wants his mouth on her - all over her. She wants it _bad._

But perhaps that’s too much, she shouldn’t indulge, and neither should he. It’s wrong, she doesn’t deserve this, it’s too good–

“Stah-pp.”

She doesn’t know why she said it. In fact, Regina isn’t even quite sure if she meant to say it or if it just slipped out of her mouth, but she did, and there’s no taking it back. The trouble is, she wants him to continue - everything he’s doing feels perfect - her body is vibrating with pleasure and warm energy and if he keeps doing what he was doing, _oh yes_ , this could be a wonderful night.

But he’s not doing it anymore. Now his hands are resting on his chest, his hips are completely still beneath her, and his eyes are trained on hers, waiting for her to decide what to do.

He stopped.

All because she told him to.

A hot surge of comprehension rushes through her, a wave of awareness slams into her and Regina leans forward to kiss him. It’s hard and fast and feral - just like he accused her of being earlier - and she owns every second of it, a smirk gracing her lips as their naked chests come into contact. Her nipples are overly sensitive now and when they scrape against the light smattering of his chest hair, _god,_ the feeling is sensational.

“More,” she pants into his mouth, kissing him again and rolling her hips. “More, Robin.”

“Yeah? You like that?” he grins, and when she smiles back, then ducks her head to gasp a breathy, “ _Mmhmm_ ,” into the side of his neck, he grabs her around the waist and hauls her up his body so that her breasts are right in his face. His lips immediately close around her right nipple and when he sucks hard on it, the jolt of pleasure floods her core. She gasps, her body jerks against him and she wraps her fingers around the back of his head to encourage him to continue what he’s doing. She’s getting more soaked by the second as he teases and tugs at her other nipple with his free hand, and then he starts nipping all along the swell of her breast, his teeth scraping lightly, sucking gently and licking, flicking with his tongue - _yesss_ \- as she holds tightly to him and prays this will last forever.

He works his mouth over to her other nipple to - _mmm_ \- pay it the same attention, and she’s starting to feel rather frantic now - the burn between her legs is becoming an unbearable throb, she can feel how swollen her lips are, how she’s ruined her underwear and is slicking her inner thighs with her excitement - _gods._ She wants him to touch her there, to put his fingers directly on her clit and rub, or perhaps he might use his mouth - maybe he would lick her, fuck her with his tongue - _ohhh yes_ \- that sounds perfect.

As if he’s just read her mind, one of Robin’s hands drops to smooth up the front of her leg, then slips beneath the fabric of her nightgown to stroke along the inner curve of her thigh.

“You’re so warm you’re practically a-light, darling,” he murmurs, his voice thick and gravelly. “I’ll bet you’ve soaked your knickers, haven’t you?” Excitement and arousal lace his tone as he presses kisses along the curve of her breast. “Let’s find out, yeah?”

_“Yesss.”_

His hand inches upward - _oh god oh god_ \- he’s almost there, any second now he’ll brush against her. She’s practically vibrating with anticipation - she needs it, _fuck_ , she needs his fingers - and he’s so handsome, his eyes are full of sinful promises as he licks and nips at her breasts. His fingers hit the lace edge of her underwear and he immediately shifts them to press over her center, eliciting a little huff from her as she rocks down against his hand. The way the fabric slides against her swollen clit is beyond obscene, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess she’s made.

On the contrary, he moans and presses his forehead to her collarbone, takes several deep breaths and grits out, “Fuck, I wanna rip these right off you. Wanna touch you, taste you _so bad_.” His fingers press inward and start to swirl rhythmically against her clit – _fuck-fuck-fuck!_ \- and she jerks against him, grabs for his shoulders while she bites down hard on her tongue to keep from rasping out his name.

It would probably be best to stop him now, to contain her lust before she totally loses control, but she doesn’t want to. No, she’s feeling greedy - she wants to encourage him to keep going, to do all the lewd things he’s just suggested and perhaps even ask him to do more.

She goes for his trousers, and he’s clearly not expecting her to do it - he goes rather still beneath her and she takes advantage of it, her slightly shaking hands unbuttoning him with a practiced efficiency that she refuses to think about. She knows he’s hard for her - it’s distinctly evident as she slides the buttons through the holes of his fly, and she can’t help but stare at the bulge that brushes against her fingers, can’t help the overeager fluttering in her stomach that’s making her fingers stumble over themselves. She desperately wants to see what he looks like again - she has thought about him like this - has _fantasized_ – far too much about him since the last time she got her hands on him.

The instant she gets his fly open, she slips her fingers beneath his waistband, catching his underwear at the same time so that when she tugs, she slides everything down at once. She is too impatient to disrobe him entirely - ends up leaving him to kick his trousers the rest of the way off, since she cannot be bothered with something as trivial as clothing. She’s too eager to touch him, _feel him,_ and the second she finally has the chance, she possessively wraps her fingers around his rigid length.

He’s thick - _so thick_ \- and she licks her lips, bites the bottom one as she stares and marvels at the way her fingers are not quite able to make it all the way around the base of his shaft.

 _Gods above_ \- oh, how he could stretch her.

She starts to stroke him then, slow and steady, her fingers firmly curled around him and her thumb sliding across his wide tip, just getting a feel for the solid, heavy weight of his cock in her hand. She got a look at him the other night, but she was distracted, too concerned with herself, too caught up in her own head to fully appreciate what was right in front of her. It feels like she’s seeing him for the first time right now, and oh, what a beautiful sight he is.

He’s cut, and he’s longer than what she suspects is average, but his girth is by far his most impressive attribute. He’s completely different than what she is used to - her husband looks nothing like this, is the opposite in every way, actually - and honestly, it’s an immense relief.

She’s not shy about sex, isn’t afraid of the male anatomy - how could she be? Her virtue was ripped from her when she was barely more than a child, and with her husband’s obsession for heirs, not to mention his priggish entitlement, she is far from virginal. But before her husband had taken the pleasure out of it, she remembers a time when she had enjoyed the excitement of being in a man’s presence, had shaken with the anticipation of a certain stable boy’s kisses, had craved his touches and wanted more, more, _more_.

That stable boy had been Daniel.

She can still recall his face, can picture his tall frame, those pretty, dark blue eyes, his exceptionally broad shoulders, and that sweet disposition that even her surly horse had taken a liking to. She was sixteen-years-old and full of rebellion when she met him – the same age her own stepdaughter is now, and she’d loved him from the second she’d set eyes on him.

Daniel was pure sunshine.

He was her friend, her escape from her mother, her link to the outside world, and even now Regina can remember the spark she shared with him. She remembers the way they traded bold, illicit touches and desperately pressed up against each other, hidden in the hayloft of the barn. She remembers the way they talked, and laughed, and played together, the way he made the world fade away and everything feel _good_ and _right_.

Daniel had been special. They had shared something that could have easily grown into more. She had been in love with him and he with her, and he had told her how much he loved her, had confessed his love to her over, and over, and _over,_ with nothing but hope in his eyes and goodwill in his heart.

But then her mother had caught them holding hands – just sharing one tiny, intimate moment - and the following day Daniel had been found, hanging by his neck from the rafters in the barn.

Suicide, everyone had said. But from the smirk on her mother’s face, Regina knew better.

She learned quickly after that, that love is weakness. It isn’t real - it is a fleeting, silly thing. And lust? Desire? It’s all just a temporary distraction, something that might feel nice but hasn’t been worth the risk. Not since Daniel.

But then she met the Thief, and instead of feeling apathetic about him like she does about most people, instead of feeling disgusted like when she is with her husband, she feels something different. What she initially thought was agitation isn’t that at all, it’s a new version of that old spark, lighting her up from the inside out. And it is far too intense to ignore.

It’s like indulging in some long-forgotten, exotic treat, a luxury that makes her pulse quicken and her mouth water simply with the opportunity to have him. As she looks over Robin’s smooth, flawless length laying hot and firm against her palm, a bead of moisture already dripping from him - gods - it stirs a deep, pulsing ache between her thighs that she can’t quell, and for the first time in her adult life, she thinks she really, _truly_ , wouldn’t mind sinking down onto him.

She feels small on his lap like this, intriguingly vulnerable even though she’s on top, especially when he runs his hands up to fist lightly in her jet-black hair. He carefully pulls her up to him to trade hot, tongue-filled kisses, and they make her nearly dizzy with desire, with longing for _more_. He whispers something about _telling him to stop_ again, but she ignores him entirely this time, relinquishes his cock in favor of yanking her nightgown up over her head, then shimmies quickly out of her underwear.

She’s the Queen and they’re not fucking stopping. Absolutely not.

She urges him to lay back and stretches out on top of him then, so that their naked bodies are pressed fully against each other. Her nipples are hard and sensitive when her breasts brush his chest, and she shivers _\- gods –_ as he palms one of them, squeezes, and she makes this obscene moan, one that is utterly raw and classless, which continues to rise a full octave as he pinches and twists her little pebbled nipple. He takes her cues well, slots his thigh between her legs and keeps at her - is deliciously merciless - creating a growing sense of urgency that, with every flick and tug of his fingers, zings all the way down to throb in her clit, while his other hand presses down on her ass, keeping her tight against him as she grinds against his thigh.

She ducks her head to suck and scrape her teeth along his throat, wanting him to feel the control escape his grasp like it is so quickly evaporating from hers. She’s not about to lose control without him this time, has already decided that by the time she’s through, he’s going to be just as desperate for her as she is for him. Regina mouths his Adam’s apple, sinks her teeth in and tugs hard at his skin, and when he groans, thrusts up against her, and his fingers dig into her ass as his cock rubs against the smoothness of her hip, she grins. _That's more like it._

She starts working her mouth all over his neck, and from the way he praises her, murmuring sweet encouragements and reassurances of how _bloody fucking good she feels_ , one would think she was obscenely talented, that her marriage had gifted her with years of opportunities to perfect showering a man with this sort of attention. But men really are _such_ simple creatures, and all she’s doing is paying attention to him. She’s doing whatever makes him pay her more compliments, repeating those little sucks, and licks, and bites that make him fuck up against her, smearing pre-cum all over her stomach, making him clutch her to him as if he’s afraid she’ll simply leave him hard, and throbbing, and completely unspent.

Ha. Not today.

He’s certainly selling this show of fondness for her, though - and she’d tell him to stop this ludicrous display of affection immediately, would tell him that he’s acting like a besotted fool - if it weren’t for the fact that every time he says something about how she’s _fucking stunning_ , or how he’s _on goddamn fire for her_ , it’s almost like… like his compliments are connected to _her own_ desire for him. It’s embarrassing - this way she responds to his praise, the way it makes her rock her hips desperately and press against him even more, but she can’t seem to help it.

Soon her own mind is fuzzy with arousal, she’s soaked his thigh with her own dripping need and left absolutely no space between them; she’s aching for relief _,_ and she’s dying for him to slip his hand between them and give her a real release. She doesn’t even care that he’ll discover how swollen her lips are now, or that she’s practically melting with how hot she is for him. Sweat is trickling down her back and matting at her nape, and if she doesn’t do something about this pressure that’s building in her core, heavens help her - she just might explode.

It’s like a godsend when out of nowhere, he moves both hands to her ass, gives her cheeks a firm squeeze and then - _mmm!_ \- a sharp slap that makes her huff out a quiet gasp against him. Her face flushes - just like earlier, she can’t deny that she enjoyed that - and she’s already scratching her nails down his pecs in retribution, hoping he’ll do it again, when he grabs her hips and yanks her over his body so that she’s - _ohhh_ \- suddenly sliding her hot, slick core directly against the rigid length of him and grinding on him properly.

“That’s it now, _”_ he groans as he starts thrusting slowly, his cock slipping easily through her folds.

Regina’s only response is this throaty hum, her manicured fingernails digging into his shoulders as she grips tightly to him. She can hear herself getting more feverish by the second, her voice roughening, growing hoarse as she murmurs, _Yes,_ and, _Gods,_ under her breath, the air in her lungs hitching each time he rubs up against her swollen clit.

His hands are firm on her ass and she lets him work her against him, controlling the pace, guiding their movements faster and faster, until she palms the back of his head, threads her fingers through his hair, and pulls his head up so he can suck hard on her nipple. His tongue curls and flicks around the peaked tip as he slaps her ass _hard_ once, twice, then squeezes the muscle, and it’s divine, this stinging pleasure that he’s giving her. She moans softly when he spanks her again, then rolls her hips and rubs her clit faster-faster- _faster_ , and - mmm, _gods_ , she’s gonna - she’s so close, she’s - _fuck -_ oh, _ohhh_ , she’s nearly there - _yes-yes-yes!_

Robin slaps her ass again and she grinds down hard - it’s perfect, _mmm!_ \- it sends a wave of intense pleasure through her clit that completely _shoves_ her to the edge. But _ohhh_ \- it’s a mistake - _oh, fuck_ \- because at the same time she rocks her body down, he rolls his up - the thick head of his cock nudges into her, and though he tries to pull away, she just… moves with him to keep him exactly where he is.

She can’t help it - he feels too good, and - _gods_ – when she drops one hand to rub her clit – she comes hard and fast – so intense that she can’t think straight. She trembles and locks her legs as she clenches around the tip of him, rubbing herself and fighting with everything she has _not_ to slide right down onto him. She wants to, _fuck_ , she wants to so _badly._ She wants to ride him, wants to bounce up and down with abandon, wants to take, and take, and _take him -_ but she can’t, she _cannot._ So she stays where she is, she keeps just the tip of him inside of her as she rubs rapidly over her clit – pulling wave after wave of pleasure that makes her shake and shatter, shiver and see stars - before she finally, _finally_ manages to pull herself away.

“ _Stop-stop,_ ” she’s breathless and a bit panicked, overwhelmed by the sensations that are still rippling through her, the wetness that’s dripping from her to run down the length of his cock - so close, gods, he’s so fucking close to being buried inside of her, and she just _knows_ he would feel so good.

He instantly freezes, but she shoves herself up and back to sit on his thighs, well away from his tempting, rigid length and repeats, “ _Robin-stop_.”

He has already dropped his hands away from her, but she’s completely flustered, reeling from the fact that she was so riled, so lost to lust that had nearly given in and taken him deep inside of her. It's annoying that she didn't, that she _couldn't,_ that she’d been frustratingly close to the type of satisfaction she will never have - not like this - and something must show on her face, because without her even saying anything, he’s already asking for forgiveness.

“My apologies,” he rushes out, “It wasn’t my intention to have you that way - I know that’s off limits, that that belongs to _him_. I swear it was purely by accident.”

She huffs out an exasperated breath, rubs her hands over her collarbones and stretches her neck as she sits back on his thighs. A beat of silence passes between them - her temper tries to rise and ruin this, tries to make her suspicious and upset with him - perhaps he _did_ do it on purpose - perhaps he wanted to take advantage of her. But when she finally has the sense to bring her eyes back to his, he looks like he’s still completely caught up in the moment. He is still flushed and breathing fast, his lips parted as he stares at her face, waiting for her reaction. She stares back stone-faced, then experimentally drags her hands down her chest and across her stomach, studying his expression as his eyes follow with hawkish precision.

She trails her fingers all the way down to her sex, to the shiny, slick evidence of her arousal that makes her blush with a combination of embarrassment and pent-up arousal, and when his stomach clenches and his cock twitches against his belly, something inside of her calms. He wants her, and he knows the rules – she does not believe he would intentionally sabotage this, certainly not before he got _his_ release. But she does not want to admit that she is at fault, doesn't want to tell him how badly she had wanted him, so she simply lets him believe he's at fault, pouts, and mutters, “I suppose it… could have been an accident.”

His eyes reconnect with hers and he nods. “I swear it.”

She nods, but she hesitates, unsure where to go from here or how to restart the fire that had unintentionally been doused.

“Christ, Regina, you look so bloody good right now,” he murmurs, and his eyes slip down to skim over her breasts, giving them a look of longing before rising once more to settle on her face. He takes a deep breath and adds, “You’ve no idea how bad I wanna get you off again. Give me another chance, yeah?”

The more he says these types of things, the more she’s beginning to think that she will never be able to predict his motives. His comment makes absolutely no sense to her, she’s never had another man _ask_ to make her come, and she isn’t sure she’ll ever understand him.

She tips her head to the side and very quietly asks, “You want another chance to get _me_ off? Why?”

It only adds to her confusion when _now_ Robin looks offended. “Because I just, I just _want_ to.”

She continues to stare at him, quite flummoxed, and then his expression changes, grows bold and determined as his hands return to her hips. He holds her gaze for a moment, then with practiced ease, he slides her back up his body and once more seats her properly over his cock. Regina braces her hands on his chest as he moves his hips up against her, sliding his solid length with meticulous care against her, hot and slippery as he glides himself through her slit, over and over. It feels undeniably good, has that simmering heat returning to her within seconds, and she curls her fingers into his pecs, tips her hips forward so he can catch her clit better on the next stroke, and he smirks, “And you bloody-well want me to get you off, too.”

She narrows her eyes at him and wonders what’s happened in his life to make him such a presumptuous scoundrel, but then he’s sliding one hand between them and - _ohhh_ \- slipping two fingers down to start rubbing directly on her clit, and she can’t find a reason to argue with him.

“See?” he asks, biting his lip, his expression full of lust as he glides his fingers against her. “You’re already ready for more. And from the way you’re soaking me, I’d wager that it’ll hardly take anything. Let me give you that. I’ll give you anything you want, darling.”

Her clit is so swollen she swears she can feel her pulse throbbing beneath the gentle swirls of his fingertips. She really does want to get off again and she wants _him_ to do it, wants him to make her feel as good as he seems to think he can. She at least wants to let him try.

“Anything I want?” she raises a brow as a fresh wave of excitement races through her veins, licks up her spine and causes her to smack her lips in anticipation. She flattens her palm against his ribs and thinks it over - she’s never had an offer quite like this, has never been with a man who might actually have _her_ interests at heart.

“ _Anything_ ,” he reiterates, his blue eyes focused right on hers, his voice full of gravel. “There’s nothing I won’t do, nothing I won’t try. All you’ve got to do is ask.”

“I…” her cheeks flush and she balks at the filthy request that’s sitting on the tip of her tongue, the thing that she longs for, but which she is somehow suddenly too shy to ask for.

“Tell me what you want,” he commands, his tone strengthening as he works her clit a bit faster, “and I’ll be delighted to give it to you.” Robin runs his fingers teasingly down and circles around and around her entrance - _goddds,_ she wishes she could let him drive them deep, _deep_ inside of her _-_ before he runs them back up to swirl over her clit.

“I want,” she scrunches her eyes closed and digs her fingers into the soft flesh of his stomach as she tries to come up with the words.

“Tell me,” he urges. “I want to give you what you want, but first you have to tell me what that is.”

“I want…” his fingers flick faster over her clit, and she moans softly at the building tension that coils in her groin, the liquid heat that seeps from her to flood his palm.

“Regina,” he groans, “tell me what you want, or tell me to stop.”

“ _Don’t stop,_ ” she begs, grabbing for his wrist and holding his hand in place as she growls, “Don’t you dare.”

“Then tell me,” he insists, his fingers swirling fast and steady, the wet sounds loud and lewd in the otherwise silent sitting room.

“I want, my, my...” she loses her breath and has to try again. “My ass.”

“What about it?” he skates his fingers deep through her slit, almost far enough to touch her rear entrance, but stops just shy of it before slipping back up to rub her clit again.

“Touch me,” she leans down, wraps her fingers around the back of his neck and presses her forehead to his. “Please, Robin, _please._ ”

“I _am_ touching you.” To prove his point, he gives her sore, reddened ass cheek a little swat with his other hand, and she groans.

Her pulse is pounding in a mixture of hot shame and anticipation while she tries to better form her request. For the millionth time in her life, Regina wishes that she wasn’t who she is, that she was not the Queen of the Enchanted Forest and that her body was free to do with as she pleased. She wants to fuck the Thief - wants to do it _properly_ \- but she has this deeply rooted fear that somehow Leopold will know, that the next time her husband exercises his Kingly, _husbandly_ rights, he will be able to tell what has happened. It’s too risky, it’s not worth endangering her life over, and since Robin was _so_ successfully able to get her off that _other_ way the last time, she’s not convinced she’s really missing out on anything by asking him to do it that way again.

She wants him inside of her, wants to feel him stretching her, filling her, and if taking him in her ass is the only way she can have him, so be it.

Besides, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t like it, that there wasn’t something in the illicitness of the activity that had added to her excitement. She wants to come, and she knows herself well enough to know that she’ll get over the humiliation of being a deviant who likes to have her ass fucked.

That is, if he’ll even agree to do it.

She whines, bucks her hips as he rolls her clit between his thick fingers and finally gives up the pretense of being a proper lady in favor of getting what she wants. “Fu-ck, _gods_. Touch - _fuck_ my ass, with – maybe with your fingers, or your tongue - like, like before,” she cuts herself off with a moan and belatedly adds, “Please?”

“You want me to finger your arse?” he murmurs quietly, his harsh breaths puffing against her lips, his fingers slowing on her clit just a touch as he steals another quick kiss and confirms. “You want to come like that?”

“Yes,” she nods and rolls her body against him, hooks her arm further around his neck and pulls him tighter to her. “Felt so good, you made me so... and I, I can’t…have it the other way. I need you to… _please_ , Robin.” She can’t finish her statement about just how undone he made her the last time, so she kisses him instead, nudges his chin up with the bridge of her nose and ducks her head down to suck at his neck, murmuring _please_ against the warm skin of his throat in between every few kisses as she works her way down to his collarbone and back up, hoping that conveys her desperation, her willingness to comply with whatever he wants, as long as he gives her what _she_ wants. She doesn’t care if it seems needy, she _is_ needy right now, and he can give her what she’s asking for, if only she can convince him.

“Alright.”

Just like that, he agrees to her request as if the entire thing is totally normal. He doesn’t ask her to clarify, doesn’t make her beg him further or justify why she likes it like, why she _needs it_ like this. He just agrees like it’s the simplest, most common solicitation he’s ever heard and tells her, his voice like gravel, “Lemme up, darling - it’ll be best if I’m behind you.”

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly she scrambles to comply, but he doesn’t leave her much time to think about it. She lets him up, then waits on her knees for further instructions, her long black hair falling over one shoulder, goosebumps flaring beneath his hands when he curves them over her hips as he gets behind her on the chaise.

“Down on your elbows for me now,” his instruction is calm and quiet in her ear as one of his large hands slides up her spine to the base of her neck. He gathers her hair to the side, then settles his hand against her nape, where he squeezes lightly but doesn’t press, doesn’t try to shove her face down onto the sofa. He just circles his thumb against her skin until she tips forward and takes the position, resting her forehead on her fists as her ass rises in the air and presses against his chest.

“That’s it, _perfect._ ”

He scratches his fingers at the nape of her neck as if in reward, and she sighs, relaxes under his touch and gentle words, and ignores the fact that she’s let him put her in such a submissive position. She is a Queen and he is nothing more than a commoner - this should never be allowed - but… for some reason that doesn’t seem to matter right now.

Robin runs his large hands over her then - strokes along her shoulders, skims across her ribs, frames her waist and then finally palms her ass.

“You will tell me to stop when you want to stop,” he instructs, his thumbs teasingly skating down the cleft of her ass. “You will immediately tell me if something hurts or makes you uncomfortable. And if I ask you something and you decline to answer me, I will assume that means that you want to stop. Do we have an agreement?”

She could just bow her head and agree - he’s doing her a kindness by spelling this all out, trying to ease her anxiety - and it would be so easy to just comply.

But that’s not who she is.

“Is that all?” she taunts with false bravado, huffing into her hands. “Are there any other commands you’d like to issue before you attempt to make me come, Thief?”

He _slaps_ her ass and she jumps beneath the sting, her clit throbs _intensely,_ and a surprised, high-pitched _mmm!_ slips from her before she can choke it back.

“There will be no _attempt_ ,” he corrects, amusement in his voice. “You _will_ come.” He runs his fingers down to rub through her slick, swollen folds, finds her clit and starts to massage it, his fingers steady and firm. “And you’ll do best to remember that my name is _Robin_. For every time you get it wrong, I’m going to redden your hot little arse. Got it?”

“Okay,” she grins and bites her bottom lip. “Thief.”

_Smack!_

His palm connects with her again and she moans beneath the sting.

“You don’t follow directions very well,” he teasingly chastises, his fingers slipping back to gather the slick moisture at her core, then returning to rub relentlessly over her swollen clit.

Her ass is already burning beautifully from the contact and she hisses through her teeth, “That makes two of us - I asked you to finger my ass, not slap it… _Thief_.”

_Smack!_

“You’re so sure you know what you want?” he goads, his hand rubs over her reddened flesh, then suddenly both of his hands leave her entirely. “Why don’t you go ahead and show me then.”

She pauses, raises a brow at the cushion in front of her. “Show you?”

“That’s right,” his voice is low and deep. “Spread yourself for me. Show me _exactly_ where you want my fingers.”

“I…” Her heart slams against her ribs, heat floods through her core and her fists clench as she turns her head to look back at him. “Spread myself?”

“That’s right,” he licks his lips, his eyes hooded, and expression nothing short of hungry. “Who knows? If I get a good look, if I really like what you're offering, I might even be convinced to have a taste.”

She moves her hands before she lets herself think too much about it. It’s filthy - this thing she’s doing - reaching back and spreading her ass open for him, as if they both don’t already know what she wants. But doing it makes her _seep_ with arousal, makes her throb and ache so badly, and she can’t pretend otherwise.

Seconds tick by where he does nothing, just makes her hold her cheeks spread wide with her ass in the air and her face pressed against the cushions, while she waits for him to decide what to do with her.

“You’re so hot for me, your little arse is pulsing,” he murmurs, and then there is wet heat pressing right against her. It’s - _ohhh_ \- it’s his tongue, circling and licking at her rear entrance as her breath stutters into the red velvet beneath her face, and she digs in her fingers, her nails biting into her own thick flesh as she attempts to pull herself wider to give him as much access as possible.

He circles and presses against the sensitive flesh, licks and prods lightly, takes his time to rub his silky wetness thoroughly over her before he slides further down and runs his tongue through her folds. His own hands replace hers as he shifts her, moving her just right so as he delves further between her thighs, he can lick and suck on the swollen inner lips of her cunt. He rubs her clit with the tip of his tongue for a few flicks before swiping back over her slick entrance, dipping inside for a few, leg shaking strokes then dragging all that wetness back to press against her ass once more, and the sensation of having his mouth lave over her from ass to clit and back again is so incredible that she's not even ashamed when she whimpers for _more_.

There’s a firmer press against her ass then, and she arches her back in excitement, her breathing escalating, hands up by her head and nails scratching into the velvet in sheer anticipation. The slick tip of his finger slips into her and she gasps, clenches on him and begs, “My clit too, please Robin, please rub it.”

The fingers of his other hand find her clit immediately, and then he’s pressing firmly against the hard, hot bundle of nerves, flicking over it and, little by little, working his other finger deeper inside of her. She can feel his mouth against her, scraping and nipping at her reddened ass cheeks, every now and again can feel his saliva contributing to the slickness as his finger goes deeper and deeper, and she parts her thighs further for him, trying to open up, to let him have her however he wants her, to let him set fire to this heat that’s coiling fast in her core.

“Your arse is so bloody tight,” he rasps, his finger slipping in a little further, his other hand working her clit faster, _faster._ “I can barely get one finger in, darling.” Robin twists his finger and brushes this spot deep within her that sends white-hot pleasure radiating through her core, and she gasps, moans, _Yes, just like that!_ as he starts to do it again, then again, and again.

“We’re going to stretch you the right way, aren’t we? We’re going to do this, over and over, we’re going to work you until we can get two, maybe even three fingers in you. And someday soon you’re going to ask me to put my cock in you instead of my fingers, aren't you? You're going to be a good girl and ask me to fuck your arse good and proper, isn't that right?"

She shivers, imagines how that might feel, the way his thick cock would stretch her ass, thinks of how she already feels so good with just his finger inside of her, of what it might be like to have him completely fill her. Her clit _throbs_ with the idea, she starts to shake, and she bites back a moan, tells him, “Yes, _mmm, please,_ ” as she shoves her hips back toward him and tries to work herself up and down his finger.

“That’s right,” he encourages, “Look how well you’re doing, taking me so deep,” his other fingers slip and slide over her clit, fly over it with a speed that tears vulgar noises from her throat as she rocks back against his hands. He curls his finger inside of her and pumps it deep and quick, and the sensation is so intense that she keens, claws at the chaise and feels the sweat roll down her forehead.

“You’re _so_ wet,” he commends, “My hands are soaked, your thighs are a mess and your arse is already clenching on me. You’re about to come, aren’t you?”

She nods frantically, can already feel the inner muscles of her empty cunt fluttering, the tightening of her core, the impossibly sharp spark of pleasure that is racing through her veins and starting to radiate through her with every thrust of his finger in her ass.

“Brilliant, that’s perfect, darling, _fuck_ , you’re so good,” he groans, pumps his finger deeper and presses his mouth to her lower back. “I’m so bloody hard for you, Regina, wish I was inside of you right now.”

“Yesss,” she hisses, begs, “Gods, Robin, do it.”

He makes a noise that's close to a growl and works his hands faster, rubbing and pumping smoothly into her as he chokes out a choppy sounding, “Can’t, you’re not, not ready.”

“I _can_ ,” she whines obstinately, _desperately_ , her hips jerking under the white-hot pleasure that’s trying to rip control from her, that's trying to tip her over the edge. She wants to come so badly but she wants him to come too, wants to give him _something_ in return for how good he's making her feel. She grits her teeth and argues, “You can have it, Robin, you can have my ass, I- I can take it.”

“We can’t, not tonight,” he huffs breathlessly, his thumb slips back and circles against the oversensitive nerves at her proper entrance, and she is seconds from coming, is already seeing stars as he explains, “You can’t fit me yet - won’t risk hurting you - _blimey,_ you feel so good– ”

“Please,” she gasps, his thumb teases her cunt, and she whines, “I can, it’s okay–”

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly, then softer, “I promise, we’ll do that another time, when you’re practiced and ready. But you’re not ready tonight and I won’t hurt you,” she starts to groan her protest, but his hands speed up and it turns into something closer to a moan.

“That’s it,” he praises her, thrusting his thick finger faster in her ass, his other fingers flying across her clit, “Be a good girl and come for me now, just like this.”

She can’t argue anymore - her vision is quickly fading to black and everything is too much. The wide stretch of his finger as he works it deep inside of her is overwhelming, the throbbing, tingling pleasure in her clit, coupled with the teasing tip of his thumb at her other entrance is unstoppable. She shatters in a matter of seconds - shakes hard and grinds her teeth as she presses her forehead down into the cushions, trying and failing to suppress a moan. His hands continue to rile her, his finger driving steadily, _relentlessly_ into her ass, filling her again and again as he swirls over her clit. Her core pulses frantically and euphoria radiates through her - her empty cunt contracts and her release rushes from her, drips onto the chaise while her ass clenches tight on his thick finger, burning with an unfamiliar stretch as he carefully continues to pump into her, prolonging the waves of pleasure that shock through her system and overload her senses.

His fingers suddenly leave her clit and she’s taken by surprise when she feels his muscular arm wrap around her waist. His finger is still buried in her ass and she moans as he tugs her backward, but then - _ohhh gods -_ his thick cock is between her thighs, pressed right against her slick slit, her lips swollen and soaked, still tingling, still _throbbing_ from her orgasm as he shoves her knees _closed_.

And then he starts to thrust.

She makes this high-pitched gasp and he immediately speeds up, his hips slapping loudly against the backs of her thighs and his thick, hot length rubbing directly against her oversensitive folds - _back and forth, back and forth!_ \- building in speed with each thrust.

"So perfect, Regina," he groans, working his finger in her ass in time with his hips. "Gonna make me come just from this. So close, got me so hard, _Chriiist_."

It's only a dozen or so more thrusts before he pulls back from her, and suddenly his finger is sliding out of her ass, he's pressing her down by her hips and flat onto her stomach, one of her legs slipping right off the chaise as he spreads her legs wide again. She turns her head to watch him and he has his cock in hand, is stroking it fast, working the tip as he brings his other hand to her ass and parts her cheeks.

He flicks his eyes between hers and her ass as he asks, "Can I?" his voice is strained, his hand pumping his cock fast and - _mmm!_ \- then he’s dipping the tip of his thumb back inside of her ass. "Can I come on your arse? Perhaps, put a bit inside?"

She arches and reaches back with both hands, spreads her cheeks and - heaven help her - she nods.

He paints her ass with his come, the hot jets of it hit her with more force than she expects, and he keeps pumping himself, keeps working his stiff length and criss-crossing her skin with white stripes of it until she feels the hot, thick liquid directly on her rear entrance. She’s sensitive and she clenches, but then his fingers are against her, spreading her puckered hole wide open - _oh gods_ \- so his slippery come can run directly down and drip inside of her. A low groan rumbles from his chest before he moves his fingers over her round cheeks to gather more of the thick liquid, and he swirls his slick, come-coated fingers over her slightly sore, taut entrance again, massaging gently until she relaxes, then he presses in and deposits even more of it inside of her.

She knows it's wrong - that she's _filthy_ , definitely some sort of deviant for this - but she smirks against the chaise as he does it, as he pushes the warm, thick liquid into her. She feels satisfied, feels proud, feels even a bit victorious because, well… it’s the first time anyone's ever asked for her permission to come inside of her, and it just feels… nice. Suddenly she finds that she doesn’t mind the way this feels against her skin, or even inside of her – she doesn’t mind at all – not when she gets to have a say in it. Robin wants her – and he wants his come inside of her however she’ll _allow it._ He wants to spill in her just for the sake of it, not because he’s trying to get her pregnant – and it’s confusing and somehow flattering to her all at once.

When they catch their breath, he helps her clean up with a soft washcloth, then to her astonishment, he grabs up the blanket from the floor and, still completely nude, cuddles up with her on the chaise before she can come to her senses and ask him to leave.

He snuggles in close, tangles their limbs as they lay on their sides facing each other, and kisses her on the lips while their heartbeats attempt to return to normal. He tells her how lovely she is, how beautiful, and perfect, and brilliant - all while she just stares at him in shock, uncomfortable with the fact that he keeps looking at her, that he keeps saying _her_ name, that he is still here and acting like he might like her even more now than he did before they did all the scandalous things they just did.

In the short span of time they’ve spent together, Regina can already see that she’s gotten much too close to him, she’s already far too intimate, and she is feeling all these soft, sweet emotions that she knows are wrong, that she is not supposed to feel - not for him, not for anyone, _ever._ His fingers dance lightly across her forehead, brush a few stray onyx strands out of her face then stroke softly down her cheek, and she squeezes her eyes shut as the word slips reluctantly from between her lips.

“Stop.”

Her heart nearly explodes when he immediately withdraws his hands from her. His willpower is stronger than she expected - certainly stronger than hers, and his eyes, gods, they’re bright and full of what she could swear is approval. It makes her heart flip over, makes her smile despite her inner turmoil and lean over to give him the sweetest, most honest kiss she has shared with him since the night he held her in the big wingback chair.

It’s a slow and lingering press of their lips, one she is reluctant to break, so she doesn’t - she steals a few little nibbles of his bottom lip, sucks at his top lip and lets herself just revel in their closeness for another moment. When she finally pulls back, his eyes are still shut, his head tipped back as she hovers millimeters away, and she can’t help but smirk when he hums, “ _Mmm_ , your kisses are sublime.”

He makes her feel shy, makes her feel _young,_ and she blushes as she argues, “It’s just a little kiss, Robin, there’s nothing special about it,” but then she rewards him with another one, just because she can.

This time though, his fingers thread into her hair and he deepens the kiss, delves his tongue eagerly between her lips, causing her to take in a surprised breath through her nose as she reels under his unexpected intensity.

“I disagree,” he argues, combing back a few long locks of her dark hair, twisting the ends around between his fingers before he smiles and adds, “but feel free to try and prove me wrong.”

She doesn’t know how he does that, how he manages to say these flirtatious things to her in a way that sounds so genuine and truthful that she almost believes him. It’s as if when he looks at her, he sees someone else, someone nobody else can see, and she wonders how he can be so blind to her faults when everyone else seems so eager to point them out.

“Tell me,” she changes the subject, “If I hadn’t killed Will, would you really have come back? Or would I simply never have seen you again?”

Regina is nervous as she trails her fingers across his collarbone, knows it’s silly that she needs his answer to this, but at the same time, she wants to know if his abandonment was a true betrayal or simply a creation of her own overreaction.

His eyes are soft and unwavering, but still, just for good measure she adds, “And before you answer, know that I don’t need to be placated. If I ever hoped for honesty from a common thief, now would be the time for it.”

He smirks at her dig, but then his eyes grow serious and he nods. “Obviously, I have other reasons for returning - I won’t pretend that I don’t. But I had hoped to see you again, that perhaps something more might come from what we had started on that night you first asked me to help you.”

Damn, if there is something wrong with him, she has yet to discover it. Regina is exceptionally good at reading people, she can easily unearth even the most well-disguised lie, but Robin’s interest in her appears to be sincere, almost as if he really, legitimately likes her.

Perhaps that _is_ the problem.

“This can’t… you do realize this can never _be_ something more, right? That this is simply… this?” She shakes her head, looks down at the fading red marks his mouth has made across her chest, winces at the throbbing in her still swollen core and the slight soreness in her ass. “Even one tryst was high treason, Robin, twice is certain death and, well, you get the point. We’re just digging ourselves in deeper every time we do this. It shouldn’t happen again.”

“Do you _want_ it to happen again?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Regina drops her eyes. “It doesn’t change our situation. It doesn’t change what’s at stake if we get caught.”

“I know what’s at stake.” Robin is serious as his fingers gently tip her chin back up, his eyes completely focused and his tone not at all dismissive. “I’m not naive to our situation. But I also know what’s between us, and Regina, I’ve made my choice. I want whatever you’ll allow.

“It’s not that simple,” she shakes her head.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s not simple. But it isn’t that complicated, either.”

She frowns, torn between what she knows she _should_ do, and what she desperately _wants_ to do.

“If you’re concerned, though, or if it’s too much, all you need to do is say the word and we’ll stop,” he says with sincerity. “I certainly don’t fancy the idea of putting you in the path of harm, and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in any way.”

She stares at him for a long moment, and she knows she should stop this. She should at least push the fact that this can’t ever be a relationship, emphasize that this is going nowhere so he has no expectations.

She barely knows Robin, but she does know that she has a crush on him, that she has even developed some affectionate feelings for him. It both frustrates and embarrasses her, but she must admit that she has entertained fantasies of him becoming something more to her, where he turned out to be someone worth her time, someone she trusted, someone that she… kept. It’s incredibly dangerous for her to think like that, to allow any sort of hope for even his friendship. She will never be able to have him in her life and there is only one horrific outcome for how this will end.

But she is confident that she can keep her feelings to herself. She is an excellent liar, she’s been doing it for years - to her mother, to her husband, to everyone around her - so she is not concerned about hiding her feelings. She can handle whatever this thing between them turns into, as long as _he_ doesn’t develop feelings for her in return, which, considering who she is, is highly unlikely. And there’s this little tugging in her chest that’s begging her to just go with it, that’s saying she doesn’t have much left to lose, so if he’s willing to risk it, why shouldn’t she?

Regina runs her hands over his chest, taking time to swirl her fingertips over his pecs, to trace his nipples, then down to run along the cut of his abs. He’s truly beautiful, both in how he looks _and_ the way he seems to want to treat her, and for a moment she feels terribly sad.

It’s going to be such a shame when this all goes up in flames.

But then again, she has always had a fondness for the total destruction that goes along with fire, so perhaps burning up with him won’t be such a bad thing after all.

“You know, we’re probably going to get caught,” she warns, trying her best to give him one last out, even as her fingers tease along his obliques, her thumb rubbing lightly across the jut of his hip. “We’re going to get the noose for this.”

“Well, believe it or not, I actually _can_ be quite stealthy,” he counters, a little smile tugging up his lips, and when she rolls her eyes he adds, “That is, when I’m not trying to catch the attention of the fairest woman in all the bloody realms.”

Regina smiles at the insinuation that he was getting captured on purpose, just so he could see her again, and then her cheeks redden at his compliment. Even though he hasn’t used a particularly unique phrase to describe her, it certainly _feels_ that way.

“Have I succeeded?” His question is a low rumble that vibrates her hands against his ribs.

She looks into his eyes for a long moment, and when she can find nothing but hope and openness shining back at her, she smiles softly, tips her head to the side and looks up at him with hooded eyes. “Oh, I’d say you’ve captured my _full_ attention.”


	13. Honesty is Overrated

Robin swears he's never met a woman who got into his head, who shook up his world, who sent him into such a dangerous free fall of reckless abandonment quite like Regina has. She consumes his thoughts, confuses his priorities, and drives him to complete distraction. And the worst of it is, he’s not so sure he minds it.

He had been in the forest this afternoon with the Merry Men, going about their slightly-less-than-legal business, when his messenger hawk had swooped in with a half-eaten red apple clutched tightly in her talons, and he’d instantly known his day had taken a more interesting turn. Sure enough, upon inspection of the apple, he'd found that the Queen had stuffed a small piece of waxed parchment paper inside the core of it, upon which she had written the time he was to meet her.

That’s all she ever writes - just the time, it’s up to him to figure out the where and how of it. So that's why, at half past two in the morning, he's come to find himself scaling the castle wall, sprinting along the ramparts, and making a mad dash for the secret passage that stems from the westward tower and down through the kitchens. There simply isn't an easier way to sneak into the Queen’s bedroom - at least, not at this time of night.

He's not sure what to think about all the effort he goes through just to see her. If he were on the outside of their relationship - if that's what this is (it's not, she makes sure to tell him that every time they're together) - he's sure he'd have grave concerns about getting his hopes up over what she insists is nothing. It’s just that, according to her own logic, it can’t be nothing, because she’s not a person who wastes her own time. So it must be something… he just can’t quite figure out what that is.

The thing is, Regina can be so difficult sometimes, she can be maddening and unreasonable and downright infuriating, but other times - and he finds this to be the majority - being with her is as easy as breathing. She is unlike anyone he has ever known, a complex mixture of fiery passion and devastating detachment, of warm welcome and futile resistance. He doesn't know how to judge where he's at with her, hasn't got a clue what she thinks of him. He just knows that he thinks she's brilliant, and every time she smiles at him, or bids him to stay, or asks if he will return to her… he finds himself unable to fathom any answer except a resounding Yes.

It's not just about their incredible chemistry, though that has only become more and more intense as the days have gone by. He has become increasingly interested in her because she’s nothing short of brilliant. She's clever and bright, an intellectual but - at least with him - she’s not a pompous arse about it. Even with her straightforward approach and lack of general patience, she's a teacher by nature, and he's quite certain that when she's showing him or teaching him things, she doesn't even realize that she's doing it. It's simply part of who she is, and he finds that endearing as hell.

Take for example, the fact that she writes her notes to him in old Elvish. It’s a strange language, one he can neither read nor write, (nor can anyone he knows), and to him, it mostly looks like fancy scribbles. She tells him that to her, the letters are clear as day, and she’s shown him multiple times how certain swirls mean _this_ , and squiggly lines mean _that_ , though he still claims they don’t make any sense - much to her annoyance and his general amusement. The truth is that he’s got a picture-perfect memory, so he pretty much just memorized the symbols the first time she showed him, but he didn’t bother to tell her that, because admitting it means she wouldn’t need to take the time to explain it all to him, and he just… he really likes it when she does. She’s cute and thoughtful when she rolls her eyes and goes over it all again, and he swears he’s not trying to annoy her by pretending he’s forgotten, he just, he likes the way she talks to him - like he’s a person of value, a person worth her time. Not just a peasant, a prisoner, or someone she occasionally likes to fuck.

Throughout Robin’s life, he hasn’t been blessed with many people - family _or_ friends - who have cared much about him, and now that Will is dead, that’s even more true. He’s still struggling with that - with his own fault and with the role Regina played in killing his oldest friend. He feels angry inside - at himself, at the situation, even at the Queen sometimes, when he’s feeling lonely and particularly down about his day. The more reasonable part of him knows it’s all the culmination of the circumstances, that there’s nothing he can do about it now and he should try to let it go, but he hates it - he hates that he lost his friend over something so stupid, over a bloody handkerchief and a schoolboy crush that he’s benefitting from now every time he sets eyes on Regina.

It just doesn’t seem fair. And to Will, it absolutely isn’t.

The problem is that the more he gets to know Regina, the more he gets caught up in her. He gets lost in the way her eyes flash as she tells him about the war between the old Elves and ancient Men, he gets mesmerized when she bites on her bottom lip as she carefully pens out letters at her writing desk demanding famous healers to come to Snow White’s aid. He can’t tear his eyes away when she brushes the feathered end of her quill against the curve of her brow as she closes her eyes and concentrates hard, thinking up new ways to help her stepdaughter, or how to thwart her mother’s latest attempts at swapping her potions, or how to avoid going to bed with her husband. And the amazing thing is, she always comes up with something, some incredibly clever way to go about solving whatever issue is at hand, and his admiration for her grows with the passing of each day.

It's already been a few weeks of this, but his anticipation over seeing her hasn’t abated in the slightest. Despite the logistical challenges, they’ve managed to see quite a lot of each other, because she’s smart, his Queen, and he’s as stealthy as he promised her he was. He knows how to get in and out of the castle better than anyone alive, and she knows how to communicate in secret - so it seems that neither of them is a novice at deception, and they’re both more than willing to take the risk of getting caught.

Rounding the last corner to her chambers, his mind weary from a long day of running over his carefully laid plans, Robin eyes something that makes a smile grace his lips, and he purposely slows before moving carefully against the far wall and easing closer to her door.

Regina is standing just outside of her room, looking a bit nervous but _very_ regal, beautiful as ever and dressed to impress, especially for such a late hour. She’s in red tonight - a deep, dark cranberry-colored gown made of velvet that has a plunging neckline outlined with glittering black diamonds. The long bell sleeves and the hem are trimmed with black mink, and her equally jet-black hair is tumbling down her back in long, curled waves. It fits tightly through the bodice, showing off the curves of her breasts and hips, even the delicate, tone planes of her stomach - leaving nothing to the imagination - then flares out at her hips and trails behind her in what he must admit is a _very_ alluring regal design. The lipstick she’s chosen matches the dress exactly, and her eyes are outlined with dark, heavy liner, which he finds quite tempting, but a bit odd for this time of night. It’s nearly three in the morning - he expected her to be ready for bed, but clearly, she had other ideas.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he calls quietly, and despite his soft tone, she jumps.

“Gods!” she turns quickly with her hands on her hips but keeps her voice low. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I was just down pilfering the kitchen,” he smiles and reaches into his pocket for evidence of his statement, then holds out some of his prize. “Piece of hard candy, Your Majesty?”

She says nothing, just stares at him for a moment like he’s completely insane, so he pops the piece of candy into his mouth and moves to join her by the door.

“Do you think it wise to keep me waiting?” she drawls, annoyance thick in her tone, but wait, there it is, a lovely pout gracing her lips. “Was hard candy really more tempting than what I can offer?”

Robin leans his shoulder against her door and ducks his head down to look in her eyes, still sucking on the hard candy.

He shrugs. “That depends. What’ve you got to offer?”

A beat of silence ticks by as her chocolate eyes sweep slowly over him, and when she finally raises her hand to play with the collar of his jerkin, oh, his heart starts kicking excitedly against his ribs. Blimey - he loves when she plays along with his little games.

“Well I _am_ the Queen,” she gives him this sexy little smile as she fiddles with his collar and takes a half of a step closer, so that they’re nearly chest to chest now. “I’m sure I can find _something_ for you to eat.”

He chomps down on the hard candy, and she must be able to hear it crunch in the quiet of the corridor, because she licks her lips as he chews away at it.

“Salty or sweet?” he murmurs – unable to stop himself from staring at her thick, red-painted lips.

She leans toward him and tips her chin up as if she’s going to kiss him, but at the very last second, she stops, hovers her lips over his and says, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He tries to kiss her, but she moves back, teasing him, so instead of chasing her like she clearly expects, Robin reaches into his pocket and pulls out another piece of hard candy. Her brows furrow as he holds it up between them, where he allows her to take a long, tempting look at it, then he promptly pops it into his mouth.

“I dunno,” he smirks, “This tastes pretty good.”

She rolls her eyes and huffs, and he almost laughs at her. If there is one thing he’s learned over the last few weeks, it’s that he will always win when it comes to patience.

“But I’m a charitable bloke,” he licks his lips, turns the handle on her bedroom door and pushes it open behind him. “I’m willing to share it with you, if you ask me nicely.”

Regina narrows her eyes at him, chews her thick red bottom lip, and glances up and down the hallway once, then _twice_.

“I don’t share.”

She full out charges him then - her hands hit his chest and he nearly chokes on the candy as she shoves him backward into her room, his feet backpedaling fast as she yanks his head down with one hand and promptly shoves her tongue into his mouth.

_Christ,_ he could get used to this.

Robin wraps his hands tightly around her waist and, in an attempt to get control of the situation, with a bend of his knees he sweeps her right off her feet. She makes this hot little _Mmm!_ of surprise against his mouth, but he just grins as he spins her, shoves her door closed and pins her up against it while he throws the lock and starts pressing kisses down the silky-smooth column of her neck. She smells divine, the scent of apples and exotic roses clouds his senses, and as he runs his tongue along the exposed upper swells of her breasts, all he can think of is how she tastes better than any candy he’s ever had.

But hey - now, wait just a minute!

Robin’s head pops up and when he pulls back quickly to see her face, sure enough, she’s grinning from ear to ear, his piece of hard candy caught between her perfect, straight white teeth as he pins her up against her door.

“Oiy!” He tries to look stern as he holds her securely around the ribs and starts to lift her up a bit higher, exhibiting his strength, trying to show off for her as he raises her up, up, _up_. “You stole my candy, you bloody thief!”

Regina flips the candy over with her tongue, then crunches it in half, raises her eyebrow in challenge and says, “So?”

“So you’ve got to pay for that!” He’s holding her up so high now that his face is nearly level with her stomach.

“But I don’t have any money,” she argues, gripping his biceps and sounding a little breathless as her long dark hair slips over her shoulders to cascade down in long, silky curls.

“No money? Are you certain? I thought you said you were the Queen.” He gives her a few good shakes then, as if he expects gold coins to rain down from her skirts, teasing her the whole time about how she _must have some money stashed away somewhere in here_ , and how he _had better check, just to be sure_ , and her uninhibited laughter is the most honest, most satisfying sound he has ever heard in his life.

Only once he’s got her really cracking up does he finally set her back on her feet. And when she wraps her arms around his neck and blinks up at him with those big, expressive brown eyes, all flushed, and smiling, and looking truly happy - _that’s_ the exact moment that he knows, with one-hundred percent certainty, that he’s fallen for her. He’s got feelings. _Big ones._

_Fuck._

“I don’t have any money,” she drawls - a bit breathless - her hands sliding down his chest to curl around the edges of his belt and giving his hips a little tug. “But perhaps there is another way in which I can repay my debt.”

Oh, how he wants to say yes to that.

But he can’t. Because now that he’s recognized he actually, really cares about her, he knows that he’s got to tell her about his ulterior motives, he’s got no choice but to come clean. This just went from casual to… _more,_ and he can’t omit his purpose any longer, he can’t keep her in the dark and still have a clean conscience. Not when he intends to upset the balance of things around her so drastically.

She deserves to know what he’s about, even if that means she might break things off. He doesn’t expect her to understand him, he doesn’t expect her to want to be with him once she knows. But he is not the type of man to be dishonest with someone he cares for. He doesn’t want to hurt her with what he’s about to do, and if he continues down this path with her now, he doesn’t see how he can avoid that - hell, it may already be too late.

But he isn’t about to abandon his part in the coup – not after three years of perfectly laid plans and so many people counting on him to come through for them.

Regina’s fingers are already moving against his belt buckle though, and he reluctantly has to reach down and cover her smaller hands with his to stop her before this goes too far.

“Wait, er, just a moment. I have to tell you something.” His pulse is pounding and his stomach feels sick as Robin takes a step back from her. He hates to put distance between them, but he doesn’t want her to feel trapped or intimidated when he tells her of his plans, and he is certain she will be angry, furious, positively _livid_ once he tells her. She’s probably going to want him as far away from her as possible, and surely she will want to call for her guards the second she feels it is safe to do so, so he might as well give her the space she needs.

At once, Regina’s expression changes from playful to serious, and she straightens up. “Tell me what, exactly?”

He swallows thickly - here goes nothing.

“When I was your prisoner, you asked me many times what I was up to,” he starts, trying not to fidget and failing at it, so he shoves his hands in his pockets. “You caught me sneaking about, and you rightfully questioned me. You wanted to know what my plans were, what I was after, and now that uh, we’re, well, I feel we’re at a point where I can’t keep it from you any longer.”

From the look on her face, one would think he had just told her that the world was on fire.

Regina’s eyes have narrowed, she’s standing unnaturally still. Her back is as straight as if an iron rod was supporting it, and her hands are curled tightly into fists at her sides.

“I’ve got reasons - _good_ reasons - for why I’ve come to do this,” Robin’s pulse is pounding in his ears, and his palms are sweaty as he continues. “I haven’t made this decision lightly, I haven’t spent all these years planning this out based on a whim or some juvenile rage. I’m part of a cause that I honestly believe will benefit just about everyone, not just myself, but I’d be lying if I said the reasons for my involvement weren’t personal.”

She doesn’t interrupt, so he trudges on, forces himself to say the words he’s certain will put an end to ever seeing her again.

“The Merry Men will kill me for telling you this, Regina, but I shouldn’t keep it from you, not when you and I are uh… doing what we’re doing. It’s not right, it’s not fair to you. So, you should know that the Merry Men and I, we–”

“ _Stop!_ ”

She cuts him off with such a sharp, clipped snap of her voice that it jars him into silence, and, unsure what she wants, he can do nothing but wait for her to continue.

“Do not speak another word of this to me,” her voice is a low growl, her eyes are fixed on his, the deep brown intense and calculating in the dim lamplight of her bedroom.

“But our actions will affect you,” he argues, “You need to be aware, you need to be prepared for when–”

“ _Stop._ ”

He is frustrated at being interrupted again, but he respects her request and immediately shuts up, doing his best to wait patiently for her to decide what to say next.

Regina takes a moment to run both hands up across her forehead, then brushes her hair out of her face as she takes a deep breath.

“Is Snow’s life in danger?” she asks. “Do you intend to kill my stepdaughter?”

“No,” he frowns, “Of course not. I - _we_ would never kill a child, it’s against our code. But especially not Snow White, though.”

She stares at him for a moment, then nods, takes another deep breath, and looks around the room before her eyes land back on his. “I believe you.”

“It’s the truth,” he tells her. “I may be a thief but I’m an honest one.”

“Then I don’t want to hear another word about this. Not now, not ever.”

Robin is stunned by her dismissiveness, and he can’t let it go quite so easily.

“Regina please, just hear me out,” he softens his tone, knows that he’s pleading a bit now, but he can’t help it. He cares for her _a lot_ , and he does not want to hurt her when they do what they’re going to do.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She is the frustrated one now, and he doesn’t like that he has upset her. It makes him irritated with himself, makes him hate that the whole reason he even knows her is because of the terrible acts he came to commit.

“Because I don’t want to know,” she huffs.

“This is important,” he insists. “It’s going to –” she shoots him a warning look, so he changes course and corrects his sentence to something more vague. “I don’t mean for it to, but it might affect you. _Badly_.”

She laughs without a trace of humor, looks him dead in the eyes and scoffs, “So what? I am already in hell, Robin. It’s not like things can be much worse.”

“Regina,” he tries, but she shakes her head and looks away, her expression hollow, blank, and he feels like complete shit. He feels like he’s just proven to her that he’s just like every other terrible person in her life, like he’s just done exactly what she expected him to, and _that’s it_ , he can’t take it. He might not be a good man but he’s not about to get grouped in with that lot.

“Please let me tell you,” he tries, but she rolls her eyes and starts to walk into her bedroom, so he cuts her off, steps around in front of her and pleads, “I’m trying to tell you this because I don’t want you to get hurt. In fact, that’s the _last_ thing I want.”

“No,” she insists. “I don’t want to know.”

Robin takes both of her hands firmly in his and is honestly surprised when she doesn’t immediately pull away.

“Then I don’t know what to do about this,” he frowns and looks pointedly at their joined hands. “If you won’t let me tell you what’s going to happen, I…” he curses under his breath and feels this stinging pain in his chest as he summons the courage to say his next words. “I think uh, I think you ought to chuck me now, before this goes any further. That way maybe, I dunno, maybe you won’t get hurt, at least not by _me,_ when it all goes down.”

Her eyes snap up to his, and he holds her gaze, doing his best to show her how serious he is.

“What makes you think you can hurt me, Thief?” she curls her lip in distaste.

“That’s just it - I don’t think I can, not right now, not yet,” he shrugs, and when she frowns in confusion he looks deep into her eyes and adds, “And I think we should keep it that way.”

Regina’s eyes flicker suspiciously back and forth between his, but then, after a few tense seconds, Robin is once again surprised as a softer expression seeps into her features, and instead of shoving him away, she curls her fingers tightly around his.

“Robin, I appreciate that you tried to tell me this,” she rubs the soft pads of her thumbs across the backs of his hands, “And perhaps I will get hurt, but…” she sighs deeply, like she’s completely exhausted. “I don’t need to be in a position more treasonous than I already am. If I don’t know what you’re going to do, then I have no responsibility in it. So as long as Snow is safe, honestly, I really don’t care what you do.”

She… she can’t be serious… can she?

Regina reaches up with one hand to cup his cheek, her palm so soft and warm against his skin that he has to fight not to close his eyes at her touch.

“Perhaps it will hurt more if we continue this, but… I’m not ready. I don’t, um,” she looks shy as she confesses, “I don’t want to give this up yet. We just started and I, I’m sorry, I just, I can’t. Not yet.”

His heart flips so fast, he’s surprised he doesn’t fall right down.

“You want to continue seeing each other?” he chokes out. “Knowing that I’m… that I’m up to something?”

She smiles ruefully and strokes her fingers across his stubbled jawline, then curls her hand around the back of his neck. “Why not?” she shrugs. “To be fair, I’ve always known you were up to something. This conversation just reinforces what we’ve always known.”

“And that is?”

“That this thing between us can’t turn into anything more.”

His heart sinks and he feels such a wave of melancholy that without meaning to, this foolish little, “Oh?” slips out.

She smiles sadly at him and quietly scolds, “Robin, you know that once you’ve done what you came to do, regardless of what happens, you’re going to leave.” She takes a deep breath and straightens her back. “And I’m going to stay.”

What she says is true - the minute their plans are through, he and the Merry Men are planning to return to Sherwood Forest, but it doesn’t have to be that simple, not if she doesn’t want it to be. He doesn’t have to give up on this so easily, and he would never just leave her to a fate unknown, with no plans for correspondence, no way to at least keep in touch - so long as that’s what she wanted.

The next thing he knows, he’s boldly offering, “Well, you could come with me,” and then he’s resting his hands on her hips as if she might want them there.

He half expects her to slap him, definitely expects her to become angry with his stupid suggestion, but to his supreme delight, she doesn’t.

Instead, Regina laughs lightly and runs her hand up into his hair to scratch lightly. “I’m the Queen,” she reminds him, but she’s keeping her voice quiet, almost wistful. “Last I checked, Queens belong in castles, they can’t just go running off into the wilds with some hoodlum.”

Robin quirks up one side of his mouth and pulls her closer, ducks his head and, feeling sentimental, he presses his forehead to hers. “What if she had her very own Thief to keep her safe? Maybe an outlaw who could protect her from all the dangers of the forest?”

She rises on her tiptoes to press a slow, easy kiss to his lips, and Robin relishes in the sweet affection that he can practically feel radiating from her. He loves how she’s such a complicated mixture of sharp and soft edges - he never knows what side of her he’s going to get, and it only makes him want to get to know her better.

“I already have my own protection,” she informs him, then teases, “My Lieutenant takes his job _very_ seriously. You wouldn’t want to break poor Brody’s heart, now, would you?”

He’s not keen on the mention of her most competent guardsman during this little fantasy of theirs, especially not when she’s using him as a reason for why she doesn’t need to run away with him. They have never had a conversation about _other partners_ , it wouldn’t really make sense to, being that she is already married and _he_ is the odd man out. But it never occurred to him to ask if she had other lovers, and now that it’s come up, he’s feeling rather stupid about it.

“I’m sure your Lieutenant is good at his job, but he can’t give you what I can,” Robin reasons, suddenly unsure of her relationship with the other man, and willing to risk looking like a fool if this _Brody_ happens to be his competition.

“Oh?” she’s giving him this funny little half-smile now, the corners of her eyes are crinkled hard as if she’s holding back a bigger grin but doesn’t want him to know it, and it’s driving his curiosity absolutely wild. “What is it you think you can offer me that he can’t?”

Robin tries to think fast, to come up with something that the other man couldn’t possibly give her, but it’s little use. Robin is a trespasser, a thief, and an outlaw, among other, even less appealing things. He doesn’t know her Lieutenant, but he imagines that in order to hold the position he does in Regina’s guard, the man must come from better stock than he does. So he opts for humor, because he hasn’t got anything else.

“Hard candy?” He holds up a piece of the sugary treat to her, and when she smiles at him and opens her mouth, he slips the piece between her lips. She gives his fingertips a little sucking kiss as they leave her mouth and all he can think is _gods,_ she’s got the most gorgeous lips he’s ever set eyes on.

“Is that all?” she asks, her hands smoothing across the tops of his shoulders now, drawing his attention back to their conversation as she plays with the ties of his jerkin and tugs at his lapels.

He hates to admit it, but he’s starting to feel a bit nervous about stacking up next to this guard of hers. Robin swears he remembers that guard from back when Eva was queen, so Regina must have known Brody a long time. Could it be that he is the man she measures all others against? That he’s what’s keeping her here at the castle?

“Perhaps you could tell me what this _Brody_ does for you, exactly,” he tries, doing his best not to sound jealous or pathetic, though he knows he’s bordering on a bit of both. “And I can propose a counteroffer.”

Regina grins then, and he doesn’t know why, but he feels incredibly stupid.

“Well, as you know, he commands my personal guard,” she drawls, a coy smile arching up one of her brows. “He protects me, he interrogates my prisoners, and he doles out sentences that I set down upon my citizens.”

“All very important tasks, indeed,” Robin agrees, wondering how on earth he’s supposed to convince her that he’s a better option - the _only_ option - for her. Clearly Brody understands her - they must communicate and work well together, or she never would have kept him around for this long. Not with that lethal temper of hers.

“Oh yes, it’s all very important - he’s good at getting the job done,” Regina nods, studying his face. “And I trust him very much. But you know what he doesn’t do?”

Robin shakes his head and prays her next words are something along the lines of, _he doesn’t make me come like you do._ Robin has never been particularly good at sharing, at least, not when it comes to women, and it’s bloody-fucking-torture to know what Leopold demands of her - how he _abuses_ her. Robin is positive that once he and his men have taken care of _that_ , he’s not going to be very keen on sharing her anymore, and he prays she won’t want him to share her, either.

She presses her wrists together in front of her as if she’s waiting for him to put her in shackles and tells him, “He doesn’t make me pay for my debts.”

Robin furrows his brow and dumbly stares down at her hands, not comprehending.

“For instance, if I take something that’s not mine,” she leans up and kisses him, uses her tongue to slip the small, almost completely dissolved piece of hard candy into his mouth and then holds up her hands between them again, “he doesn’t hold me accountable for it. He doesn’t _punish_ me.”

“Is that something you fancy?” He swallows thickly, his pulse pounding _very_ fast, thinking of how she bites back her moans when he tries little things like that, things like holding her wrists or delivering her a few healthy spanks. He thinks of the way she writhes, how she tries to hide it, but they both know that she thoroughly enjoys surrendering her control to him, and here she is, asking him for _more_. “Are you in need of a good slap on the wrist, Regina?”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, turning her palms up in front of him, “It seems that I’ve been caught stealing. I’ve been a very… bad… girl…”

“I see,” Robin breathes, imagines settling in and really spanking her gorgeous, full, round bottom, thinks of how her perfect, golden skin would redden and jiggle beneath the firm, steady slap of his hand, and – _oh fuck yes_ \- he really wants to do that right now. “And you need to be punished, do you?”

“Yes,” she breathes, slides her hands up and down his chest as she presses her body up against him. “Though, if I am to learn my lesson, you might have to get a little rough with me.” She looks up at him through her thick, dark lashes and asks, her voice all husky and low, “Do you think you could do that?”

_Fuck yes._

His stomach twists low and tight with arousal at her offer, and his saliva clicks in the back of his throat as he tries to compose himself. He absolutely wants to do this with her, would kill every person in this castle for the chance.

Slowly, and with great care, he curls his hands around her proffered wrists and, step by measured step, he backs her up against her door, guiding her hands up until they’re pressed against it, pinned by her head. Then he ducks his face down close to hers so he can whisper in her ear.

“Oh, I can get rough,” he runs his hands down her arms to her elbows then back up to her wrists, kisses her lips, drags his teeth across her bottom one, then asks her seriously, “Are you sure that’s what you want? Are you sure you trust me?”

Regina nods. “I trust you.”

His chest fills with pride, and he’s positively thrumming with anticipation as he pulls her arms up a bit higher, so her delicate wrists are crossed above her head and he can hold both with one hand. He leans in even closer then, so he can press his lips to the curve of her neck in an achingly slow kiss that causes her to shiver against him, slowly working his way up to her jaw, dragging his tongue and teeth against her smooth, warm skin, before he puts his lips to her ear and rasps, “Well, my little thief, let’s see about paying off that debt of yours then, shall we?”

Using his free hand, he reaches down and grabs her behind one knee, then he roughly jerks her body against him. Her breath hitches, her back arches, and there isn’t a doubt in his mind that yeah, just like he thought - this is going to be a bloody good night.


	14. Learning the Hard Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - parent/child physical and emotional abuse; graphic descriptions of violence and gore
> 
> Filthy smut - non-vanilla similar to earlier chapters

Regina is loath to admit it, but Robin is… affecting her. She doesn't know how he's doing it, but over these past few weeks, he has managed to turn himself from a simple distraction into a blinding disruption that invades nearly every minute of her day. He is constantly in her thoughts, he reappears in her dreams, and if that isn't bad enough, every second she must spend apart from him makes her feel strange… like she's on pins and needles, full of this uncomfortable anxiety that refuses to abate until she sees him again. She has never felt such desire for another person’s company, and it’s gone well past just wanting the satisfaction that comes from the lustful pleasure he delivers to her. There’s something else he gives her, something far beyond that - she can see it, can feel it - this deep-rooted intimacy - and nothing she has ever experienced has been at all like this.

Regina doesn’t connect with many people - both by choice, and _not_ by choice. She simply doesn’t like most people - she finds them dull, or weak of will, or dim-witted, so they don’t warrant her attention, and in recent years, most people are terrified of her anyway, so it’s not like potential friends are lining up at her door. Those few who have both managed to summon their courage and draw her curiosity, she hasn’t been allowed to know - either her mother or her husband has always intervened, has concocted some reason for why she had no business engaging with whomever they were. So, Regina has never had close friends, she’s only ever had Snow White, her mother, and Daniel, who she's not even sure she’s allowed to count, since the whole reason he wound up dead is because he loved her. She doesn’t suppose that makes her a very good _friend._

It’s been a long time since she has been tempted to invest in another person, since she’s felt that little tug in her stomach that urges her to submerge herself in the knowledge of what constitutes someone else. It has been a lifetime since she’s craved to be able to read another person’s every expression, to memorize the beat of their pulse against her fingertips, to listen to the steady sound of their breaths as they sleep peacefully next to her, but that’s exactly how she feels about Robin. She has even caught herself trying to commit the taste, smell, and feel of him to memory, because she learned with Daniel that any time she’s with Robin may very well be the last. There are no second chances to learn these things, there is no way to reset the clock once the cold claws of death rip someone’s soul from this world, so she had better make the most of this while she has it.

Regina is many things, but a fool isn’t one of them. Any day now, their time together will expire; she will wake up and he’ll have completed his secret task, he’ll have done whatever stupid, terrible thing he’s set out to do, then he’ll be gone forever, _or dead_ , and she’ll be alone.

That, or they’ll both be dead.

She doesn’t know exactly how it will all turn out, but she knows that there will be hell to pay, and she’s not about to waste what little time they have together before the firestorm rains down upon them.

The Queen shifts uncomfortably in her chair and cringes at the way her rear and the backs of her thighs burn. She should not have asked Robin to _punish her_ last night, not when she knew she’d have to spend all day sitting next to her husband like this, poring over the fall taxation schedule with his advisors.

It’s just that she’d had a terrible day yesterday, and she felt like she really, truly needed it. She’d been in a horrendous mood after spending an equally awful night with Leopold, and in her particularly ornery state, she’d doled out four executions and cut the hands off two thieves before lunch. In the afternoon, she’d argued viciously with Leopold about letting her in to visit Snow, which he mulishly refused without any good reason, so then she’d turned to her mother. Unfortunately, Cora had agreed with Leopold, and in her frustrated fury, Regina ended up picking a fight with her too that went on for nearly three hours. It seems that Cora’s been intercepting Regina’s potion ingredients suppliers before they can deliver her orders to the castle, a fact that Regina is _not_ happy about, and which her mother _just doesn’t see the problem_.

Her mother is trying to thwart her from brewing her monthly infertility potion, that much is clear, but Regina needs several of those ingredients to make other critical potions too - health, memory loss, and truth potions, to name just a few. Cora hadn’t even tried to deny what she’d done, no - she’d told Regina it was _for her own good_ \- and their argument had gotten particularly heated. Regina was furious with her mother, not just for being sneaky, but because Regina had Brody torture two of her suppliers into total incompetence for their disobedience before she discovered her mother was behind the scheme, and now she has to find _new_ suppliers of these exceedingly rare ingredients that were nearly impossible to get in the first place. Even after telling her mother that, all Cora had to say was that it was _Regina’s own fault_ , and if she’d just get pregnant already, Cora wouldn’t have to go to such lengths to _help her._

So when Robin had shown up last night, looking all roguish and acting playful, teasing her, and making her _laugh_ in spite of all that, it’s like her brain stopped functioning. He kept gazing at her in that way he does - with his eyes all soft and sweet, like he’s never set eyes on a more beautiful woman - and then he went and acted as if he was just the slightest bit jealous of Brody, and, well…

She could not resist the temptation to ask him to punish her for her unruly behavior all day. It didn’t matter if Robin knew it or not, she really _had_ behaved badly, and she knew from their first night together that letting him punish her somehow made her feel just a little bit better about it. She’s discovered that the slap of his palm against her skin gives her a distraction, some sort of relief - especially when paired with the mind-blowing orgasms he gives her - and as an added bonus, now she has something interesting to think about while she sits through this dreary meeting.

She never used to be invited to these meetings, but in the past two years Leopold has requested her presence more and more. At first, she had been… almost excited about the proposition. She had thought her husband might finally be giving her some credit for the education she painstakingly achieved in her youth, or perhaps he recognized that she was good for something other than warming his bed a few times a month, but no. He had sold her yet another lie - had told her that he wanted her to _check the numbers,_ when he never actually meant to let her do any of the work, never intended for her to use her brain at all. In fact, on the few occasions she tried to correct one or two of his (many) errors, he had lost his temper so badly that now she mutely sits next to him, staring into space until he points somewhere in his ledger and discretely requests for her to, “Read that number back to me.”

The reality of the situation would be amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic. At nearly seventy-years-old, Leopold’s eyesight is failing him. He can no longer make out the messier or smaller numbers scrawled along the fine lines of parchment paper, and so Regina is there to save him from the embarrassment of using his thick spectacles in a room full of younger, more educated, and much more vibrant men.

She recrosses her legs and once again feels the tenderness that her Thief dealt so skillfully to her backside, and when her husband suddenly _smacks_ his hand down on the table next to her in annoyance about how he doesn’t understand why trade is down for the sixth quarter in a row, Regina’s mind flashes back to the night before.

_“Tell me to stop,” Robin had said as he kept her bent over her bed, one hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades as he landed another hard, stinging slap to the bare right cheek of her ass. “Tell me you think you’ve had enough.”_

_“No,” she had panted, curling her fingers in her silk sheets, her brow laced with sweat, her back arched sharply as she pushed her hips back toward him. “More - I need more.”_

It had been the right answer. He had approved and had told her so, had encouraged her to let go, to trust him to decide when she’d had enough, to trust him to know when she was at her limit, and for the first time in her life, she just... _did_.

He had pushed her - that was for certain. He had _not_ gone easy on her; he hadn’t simply played along just to humor her. No, her Thief had been an active, willing, and _deliciously_ dominating participant in what they did.

He had stripped her of every ounce of control, had held her down with her underwear shoved around her knees and had mercilessly reddened her ass until she was slick and glistening with need, pleading with him to _touch her - to please, please touch her._

But it wasn’t so simple, of course. He’d made her spell it out – _where Regina? Where do you want it? Be specific, tell me darling. Where do you want to be touched?_ – and gods, she couldn’t resist anymore, she’d broken. She had shamelessly begged him to fuck her with his fingers, to bury them into her aching cunt. She had used every single ounce of coercion she could come up with, had promised him anything to get him to do it, all while he vehemently argued that it was against her rules.

 _Fuck the rules_ , she had said, and just when she thought she’d won –

He’d finger-fucked her ass instead.

He had filled her perfectly - _over and over_ \- had stretched that taut muscle nice and wide with two thick digits and sunk them in _deep_. He had used his talented, sinful mouth to suck on her swollen nether lips and throbbing little clit, had rubbed her with warm, wet blissful little tongue-taps until she was squirming and thrashing so much that he’d had to tie up her hands with her very own underwear. His fingers had thrust carefully at first, then steadily faster, _faster,_ until he was making her arch, cry out, and _come -_ making her aching, empty cunt gush - which he greedily lapped up with his sinful tongue, before spreading her ass cheeks wide and telling her how impressed he was with the _pretty little gape she made for him_.

Only after she had come twice from that - and she _continued_ to beg him to finger her cunt - did he finally, _reluctantly_ agree, and _gods_ , she nearly lost her mind from the feeling. He’d tried to be gentle, to go slow - he _tried_ to make it special - but she had been frantic. She had pleaded for him to fill her, to _fuck her,_ and when he resisted getting rough with her, she had grabbed his wrist and done it herself.

She pushed his fingers in deep, then she rode his hand with abandon, admiring his slack-jawed face while _his_ eyes were glued to the way she was taking his fingers inside of her, as if this were his first time doing this with a woman (which she knew it was not). She told him how good it felt, how much she wanted it, how badly she needed it, but still, even _that_ didn't coax him into giving it to her how she wanted. _He_ wanted to go slow, to be _careful;_ he wanted to make sure that _she was sure about all this_ \- and it... well, it was annoying.

So of course, she resorted to telling him that if he wouldn't do this for her, she'd find a man that would.

And oh, that _really_ broke his resolve.

After that, it took nothing to get him to use his hands to pleasure her in every way she needed. She asked him to finger her - hard, harder, _harder -_ had demanded that he give her two, three, _four_ fingers; to work her until she was shivering with ecstasy. She had assured him dozens of times that she needed it that way, that she needed it _all._ And he listened, gods above, how that man could listen. 

She had made a mess for him - she couldn’t help it. His fingers are so much bigger than hers, and when he was inside of her, when he had two fingers in her ass, and three in her cunt, fucking both of her holes at the same time, hitting that spot that sparks white-hot pleasure with _every single stroke_ relentlessly _\- fuck_ \- she couldn’t hold anything back.

He had moaned when she soaked the sheets, thrust his fingers in her cunt _faster-faster-faster,_ and when he pressed down low on her stomach and ordered her to _keep coming_ \- _as if she could stop it_ \- he made her drench her thighs again, and _again_ , and _again. Gods._ He hadn’t quit working her until she’d made a complete soaking mess of everything, and her legs were spasming, her core clenching almost painfully as she bit back a scream from the overwhelming sensations. She finally managed to wiggle just out of his reach, where she could slam her thighs closed, her chest heaving, breaths catching, a wicked smile curving her lips - and she swears she blacked out for a moment as she shuddered through the delicious, shimmering shocks of pleasure.

When Robin grabbed her by the ankles not two minutes later and dragged her back down the bed, she had laughed with this giddy excitement she’d never experienced before. Regina had grabbed his face, bitten roughly at his lips and pulled him down on top of her, where she confessed every filthy fantasy she’d ever had about him. He’d groaned against her lips, had slipped his thick cock between her legs and thrust between her thighs - _gods -_ and it was so, _so good -_ almost like he was fucking her. But she couldn't stand to be teased like that - it just made her want him, made her want more, _more -_ so instead, she’d guided his fingers back inside of her and told him to keep them there, because _that’s where he belongs._

He hadn’t argued at all - he just bit into the crux of her shoulder and made this low growl that made her stomach drop, before he told her how _hot_ , and _wet_ , and _bloody-fucking-tight_ she was as her hand stroked rapidly over his length. And with two of his fingers pumping inside of her, his mouth sucking wetly on her neck, she had brought him to completion. But she couldn't let him go - no, she had held his hot length in her palm and continued to stroke, demanding that he paint every inch of her with his come as he leaned over her and proceeded to crisscross her breasts, stomach, and thighs with it.

And then they’d done it all over again.

_Gods she wants him._

Robin had spent hours on her. He’d made her come and come and _come_ \- made her beg him for every release, and each time he finally let her come - _gods_ \- he turned the tables and wouldn’t let her _stop coming_ \- not until he had wrung every ounce of pleasure from her, not until he had shattered her completely. No, it wasn’t until the sun was threatening to rise and Regina could barely keep her eyes open any longer that he finally quit, when she flopped down on her back and breathlessly, _reluctantly_ uttered the words, “Okay, okay, we _have_ to stop.”

Then, and only then, had he finally let up. True to his word, he had instantly halted his actions, asked if she was alright, and, upon her delirious, slightly slurred agreement that she was _fucking fantastic_ , he’d graced her with that beautiful hearty laugh of his. Then, looking handsomely tousled and quite proud of himself, he’d cleaned them both up, gathered her into his arms and asked for her permission to hold her for what was left of the night.

And even though she was _incredibly_ anxious about sharing her bed - every night she had ever spent in her husband’s bed had been at best, terribly humiliating - with Robin’s pretty blue eyes shining with hope, and his dimples looking so damn sweet, she just... couldn’t find it in her to deny him.

Thankfully, the heavens must have finally decided to cut her a break, because spending the whole night with Robin in _her_ bed was nothing like her spending the night in Leopold’s.

Robin didn’t shame her for not being the _right_ woman, he didn’t demand that she _keep her mouth shut_ , he didn’t shove her away and then threaten to fuck her again if she didn’t lay in the exact position that he determined was most likely to get her pregnant. Hell, Robin didn’t even let her catch a chill.

No.

He’d tucked her in _so_ close to him, and once their overheated bodies had cooled, he’d pulled the heavy quilt up over them as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to share the space. He’d even made a point in moving her vanity chair in front of her locked bedroom doors, just as an extra precaution, so that no one could unexpectedly come barging in before he’d had a chance to get out of sight. He’d pillowed her head with his thick bicep, stroked her hair, leaned in time and time again - sometimes in mid-sentence, as if he couldn’t resist - to pepper kisses all over her face.

He’d asked her if she was still okay with the way he used his fingers inside of her, or if she felt regret. He told her he understood if she did, and apologized for not being stronger, for not being able to resist, for not being _a better man about it._ And she had to admit that even though she had been terrified of crossing that line with him, she didn’t regret it. He can’t get her pregnant with his fingers, or with his tongue, so she thinks it’s relatively safe for them to do that. It had felt wonderful, had felt so different from what she has experienced in all the best of ways, and she didn’t blame Robin for stepping out of bounds. Not when she begged him the way she did. As far as Leopold is concerned, she doesn’t think he’ll notice, not unless Robin leaves some sort of mark, but she supposes she’ll find out for sure the next time Leopold takes her to bed.

So be it.

It feels worth the risk, especially now, after Robin had spent the rest of the night being so soft with her, so comfortable and relaxed, wrapped up with her in bed. He’d talked, told stories, laughed, and just _breathed_ with her. He had asked her silly, stupid questions that made her blush, had run his fingers through her long, thick, messy waves, and stared into her eyes like they were teenagers in love, until at last, she had drifted off to sleep.

This morning he had woken her just before he left, his short hair adorably mussed from the pillows as he kissed her goodbye and thanked her for a lovely evening.

He’s unreal, her Thief.

Leopold interrupts her thoughts to ask her to read off a few numbers for him, and her attention is quickly dragged back into the present when several of the council members start heatedly bickering over some of the expenses.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Leopold calls out, and the room quiets. “I believe it’s time for a break. Let us reconvene in thirty minutes, once we’ve had a chance to clear our heads.”

An agreeable grumble echoes throughout the room, and everyone quickly takes their leave, save for Leopold, who calls to Regina just as she starts to rise from her chair.

“For weeks there has been no improvement in my daughter’s health,” he tells her quietly, completely out of the blue, and Regina stares down at him as he rubs his hand over his face, tugging lightly across his silver beard. “For weeks, not a damn thing has changed.”

Regina says nothing. She isn’t about to comfort her husband, not over something she is _very_ aware of, and certainly not when he has banned her from visiting her stepdaughter while giving her no insights into her condition.

“She likes you, Regina,” he mutters dejectedly, staring at the table, scattered with ledger books in front of him. “For whatever reason, she has always managed to see something worthwhile in you.”

“Perhaps she sees _me_ , while others choose only to see what I am not.” It’s a low blow, and she knows he will be angry at her for it, but she doesn’t care. It’s the truth.

Leopold glowers. “You are not her mother,” he looks up at her as he sits back in his chair. “Much as you may want to be, you will never be connected to my daughter the way that Eva was.”

“What is it you want?” Annoyance prickles across her skin, oh, how she _hates_ that dead woman. Regina is the one who _raised_ Snow, she has been there for that girl since she was three years old. She may not have conceived her, she may not have been able to carry her in her own body, but she still has a bond with her, damnit.

Why does no one else understand that? Why does thirteen years of love and devotion count for absolutely nothing? Eva is _dead_ \- she has _been_ dead for nearly all of Snow’s life. How can _her_ love mean more than Regina’s?

It’s not fair.

“I am at the point now where I will try anything to make my daughter healthy again," Leopold sighs, and with a groan, he stands up. “I’m against it, but a few of my advisors thought it might be good for her spirit if I allow you to go and see her.”

Regina’s heart positively _soars_ with the prospect of seeing her stepdaughter after so long apart, after hours upon hours of constant worry, after the fear of losing her has driven Regina nearly insane. The relief causes her to smile - to legitimately smile - at her husband, and brightly, _hopefully,_ she asks, “Really?”

Leopold frowns at her, unused to her agreeable attitude and, looking a little lost for words, he nods. “Come on.”

They make their way to Snow’s room in silence, Regina’s heart pounding with anticipation, her hands clasped in front of her as she fails to fight the urge to wring her fingers with excitement. She’s been dreaming of this moment, of getting to finally set eyes on her darling girl. She doesn’t know if Snow will be able to hear her, but she wants to whisper reassurances to her, wants to promise her that the healers are doing everything they can, to tell her how she’s sent out letters to every scholar in the realm describing her symptoms and demanding they provide a remedy that will cure her.

From what Regina has been told of Eva’s demise, the Royal Healers had been able to treat the woman, at least for a little while, before she fully succumbed to it. And with what little information she has gathered regarding Snow’s condition, Regina genuinely believes Snow can be helped - especially since her mother’s stasis spell seems to have stopped the disease in its tracks. It seems logical to her that if they can find a way to pause the progression of the disease, that they should be able to reverse it, too. It’s just a matter of _how._

Leopold, however, isn’t at all convinced of this being a simple hereditary issue. In fact, with no improvement in Snow’s condition, he has started to grow suspicious that there is something sinister at work. He started with witchcraft, but Regina’s mother promptly put a stopper in that, at which point he shifted gears and started postulating that perhaps his daughter had been possessed by demons or foul spirits. With no evidence to support supernatural causes, however, now he’s started tossing around theories about certain nobles trying to overthrow him, making lists of all the people he thinks might turn on him and then writing out the reasons for their supposed treachery.

Regina has overheard many of his theories and they don’t make any sense, especially when no one else has been attacked. And honestly, his sidetracked obsession over a successional sabotage hasn’t led anyone any closer to a cure for his daughter, so it’s just starting to make him look demented.

No, Regina believes that the Royal Healer and her Mother are correct, that Snow has the same sleeping sickness that Eva did, and while Regina doesn’t always see eye to eye with her mother, at least in this case, she feels incredibly grateful that Cora has been able to help. The fact that Cora’s been both willing and able to put Snow into a magical stasis, that she’s been able to buy them some time to find a cure is about the only thing keeping Regina sane.

Cora’s forte is not in healing spells, which she humbly admitted when she put Snow under the spell, but Cora’s magic is strong, and Regina wishes more than ever that she had inherited more of her gift, that she could help her stepdaughter directly instead of standing around like an idiot, waiting for answers to her desperation-filled letters.

When they reach Snow’s room, Regina is so excited that she can hardly stand it. She has a silly moment where she wishes she had worn a brighter colored dress today, something happier, something perhaps a bit more child-friendly - not this grim frock she keeps around just to annoy Leopold.

The long, form-fitting dress is jet black, with a trailing satin skirt and capped sleeves that glitter with onyx gemstones. The tight, low-cut corset is accented with blood-red trim, and while the dress shows off her assets nicely, especially with her hair swept back and up off her neck like it is today - it certainly doesn’t atone for the otherwise somber mood of the dress.

Her husband has complained on more than one occasion that when she wears this gown, she looks like she’s in mourning, and he loudly gripes that he wishes she’d get rid of it, so she makes sure to wear it on days that she has to spend a lot of time in his company. But she wishes now that she had worn something a little less melancholy to visit Snow - she doesn’t want to give her the impression that she’s given up on _her_.

As they near Snow’s bedroom, Regina instantly recognizes the shimmery dark red veil that glitters over the top of her stepdaughter’s door. It’s her mother’s magical barrier, and she knows that she cannot pass through it, so she wonders how Leopold intends to go about his little plan. But then Leopold reaches out and touches the door, the veil disappears, and when he bids her to enter with him, she is able to step into the room.

She is two paces in - exactly two - her eyes have just landed on Snow, sweetly tucked away in her bed, her bright yellow quilt pulled up to her chin, her skin pale as death in the dim light, when a cold hand wraps around her wrist and violently jerks her right back out of the room.

“Regina!” Cora snaps angrily, “What in the realms are you doing?!”

“I –” she starts, but Cora does not wait for her to respond.

“You are not supposed to be here!” Cora is positively _livid,_ her face twisted up as she holds tightly to Regina’s wrist, shaking her arm as she scolds her in the corridor. “What were you thinking? How dare you defy me!”

Fear races through Regina as her mother’s magic flares around her in a red haze, her grip tightening like a vice on her wrist, pain radiating up her arm and her knees attempting to buckle as the bones of her wrist strain beneath Cora’s magically heightened strength.

“Oh, hello Cora!” Leopold strolls out of Snow’s room, “Coming to check on Snow?” Somehow, he is completely oblivious to the tirade that is occurring, and Regina glares angrily at him for his blissful ignorance while sweat beads along her brow and she fights the staggering pain in her arm.

“Of course,” Cora’s husky tone is low and calculated as her magic dies down a little and she steps closer to Regina, discreetly hiding the punishing grip she maintains on her. “But first, my dear Leopold, won’t you tell me why our Queen was risking exposure of your unborn children to the sickness that lies in that room?”

Leopold immediately looks abashed, glances from Snow to Cora guiltily, glowers at Regina for a second, and then goes back to dutifully looking at Cora. “As you know, she’s been begging to visit Snow for weeks,” he sighs theatrically, then continues. “In fact, she threw such a terrible fit during this afternoon’s council meeting that we were forced to adjourn, and I only managed to calm her down by promising to bring her here. She’s been quite the handful lately Cora, and I’m sorry to say that she’s finally worn me down.”

_That lying bastard._

Regina tries to pull away from her mother, intent on telling her side of the story, but Cora is too quick. She yanks hard on Regina’s wrist, something _crunches_ \- _fuuuck_ \- and the pain is immense, it’s _inescapable_ \- a blinding, searing horror that shoots up her arm and slams into the base of her skull, fires through her forehead and washes over her eyes in a black sea of stars. Regina’s legs instantly give out, and a pathetic, embarrassing whine hums out from her throat as she falls to her knees in agony.

When her vision clears, Leopold is gawping at her, his nose scrunched in distaste as she fights to get her feet under her. She needs to get up, she _refuses_ to cower on the floor like a dog, but it’s so difficult, nearly impossible, because the biting, gnawing pain in her arm is somehow intensifying without her mother even touching her anymore.

_Gods, it hurts so much._

“I understand she can be willful,” Cora drawls with an air of boredom, as if absolutely nothing is happening behind her, as if her daughter isn’t kneeling on the floor with immeasurable pain flooding her veins. “But we all know that there is nothing Regina can do for your dear Snow. We must direct her focus to where she can be of use. Certainly, you can come up with a way for her to be… productive, can’t you Leo?”

“Yes…” Leopold turns and glances in Snow’s direction, looking uncertain, but Cora isn’t quite done.

“Snow is being well-tended,” she reassures. “But we really don’t know much about her disease. For example, we don’t know how it spreads. And we wouldn’t want to compromise your _secondary_ line of succession by accidentally exposing them to it, now would we?”

Leopold’s eyes grow wide with fear as he looks from Snow to Regina, and then back again.

“No, I don’t think we’d want to take a chance like that,” Cora continues, “all because Regina’s had another one of her silly little tantrums.” Her mother’s disapproval drips off her tongue like molasses and Regina’s husband gobbles it up like the greedy pig that he is.

She finally manages to stagger back to her feet, but Leopold barely notices. He’s too busy gazing at Cora as if she’s the wisest, most admirable woman in the world, and wholeheartedly agreeing with her, “Of course not. We must protect my heirs. _All_ of them.”

Regina would absolutely love to join the conversation right about now. She would love to tell them both to go straight to hell, to remind them that she is a person, _damnit_ , and they can’t just make decisions for her as if she’s some sort of invalid. She wants to yell, to scream at them that she’s so fucking tired of this, that she hates this life, hates what they’ve made of her, that she hates _them_ , and they can take their precious heirs and shove them right up their asses.

She’d love to do that, but she can’t. Her mother’s magical torture in her wrist is so intense now - _tightening, tightening, tightening -_ that she can’t get her words straight, she can’t open her mouth without giving away how much she’s suffering. She can’t even breathe without trembling - her neck is straining, her face flushed, sweat is trickling down her brow as she holds back the screams that threaten to spill from her lips. So how can she tell her mother, the cruel, truly terrifying, heartless Queen of Misthaven that she’d rather they just fucking kill her than make a broodmare out of her?

She cannot.

“Well, I’d better head back to the Council,” Leopold sighs, checking his pocket watch and glancing wistfully back toward Snow one last time before giving Cora’s shoulder a congenial squeeze. “At least I know my heirs are in good hands for now.”

“I’ll send Regina along in a minute,” Cora nods.

Knowing that she’s going to be alone with her mother for the next few minutes sends even more fear streaking through Regina’s veins, but by the time she manages to grit out, “I really must be going,” Leopold, the bastard, has already taken off down the corridor without her, and Cora simply laughs.

“You’ll go when I say you will.”

Her mother holds her false smile until Leopold turns the corner, and then the witch’s red magic flares all around them once again - dazzling, fascinating, and positively _terrifying_. Regina has lived through this scene far too many times to _not_ know what’s coming, and she tries to brace herself, though she knows it won’t help - it never did when she was a child, and it still doesn’t now.

“Your penchant for self-destruction is starting to try my nerves, Regina,” her mother growls, making a fist that sends the stabbing pain in Regina’s wrist down through her fingertips and up the length of her forearm. Regina falls back to her knees and screams in agony beneath the onslaught, her mouth wide open and her lungs expelling every ounce of air - but no sound escapes her - yet another trick of her mother’s magic.

“I have put up with your insolence for far too long,” Cora continues, “I have allowed you to shirk your duties as Queen and to put off your pregnancy, I have stood back and watched as you insisted upon making mistake after mistake.”

Tears stream down Regina’s face as she silently screams and clutches desperately at the invisible pain that’s searing through her hand and arm, but her mother shows her no mercy.

“I have watched you make a fool of that man and an embarrassment of this Kingdom. I have watched you fail where you should have risen up and come into power like the Queen you were supposed to be, the Queen _I raised you to be!_ ”

Cora is furious, her voice filled with disdain and venom as she spits the words at her daughter, the pain surging up, up, _up!_ Regina’s arm with each syllable, slicing through her bicep and cutting through her shoulder like ten-thousand knives.

It doesn’t stop there though, no - her mother’s torture rises even higher, winding up and over the top of her shoulder to stab into her neck, before running down like spikes of red-hot iron to pierce into her back, her spine, and between each of her ribs. It stabs across her shoulders, then - _gods_ , _no, please, please no -_ it continues to rip and shred through every cell as it travels down the length of her other arm.

She’s not screaming anymore.

She can’t - she is consumed by absolute agony.

Her mouth is hanging open, but she can’t breathe -

PAIN.

She’s suffocating on her own terror -

_PAIN._

There is saliva running down her chin, tears streaming from her eyes -

_PAIN._

Her vision is blurring, fading from red to black to red again -

_PAIN._

Her body spasms, twitches, _convulses -_

_PAIN._

Regina topples over onto her side, unable to catch herself or even acknowledge the way her head _smacks_ against the stone floor with so much force that she’s just split her cheek wide open and given herself a wicked black eye.

PAIN.

It consumes her entirely, her body seizes wildly, and she is helpless to stop it, so Regina breaks and does what she has learned to do on so many occasions when her mother gets like this. She gives in, gives up, and surrenders herself to the pain, simply because there is no other option.

There is no reasoning with Cora when she is in this state. There is no use trying to argue, there is no fighting back. Cora is far too powerful.

There is nothing to do but to let Cora rage, let her wear herself out, let her do her absolute worst and pray for a swift end.

One way or the other.

“This is the last straw! How do you expect to rise to greatness when you won’t even try?!” Cora snarls viciously, circling Regina like a lion. “Look at you! You’re pathetic! I made you a Queen and you have done nothing with it! How could you do this to me? How could you be so selfish? How could you be such a disappointment???”

Cora is ranting furiously, going on and on about how her daughter has failed her, but Regina can only hear little muffled bursts of what she is saying. Her body is thrashing on the floor, arching up and jerking wildly on its own, as if in some primal instinct to try to escape the excruciating pain that she already knows there is no escape from.

It’s funny (but only in the worst of ways), that no one suspects there’s a reason the Evil Queen is an absolute ace at handing out punishments, that no one has ever stopped to wonder why she doesn’t flinch in the face of blood, gore, and guts. It’s tragically amusing that no one asks why it is so easy for her to determine which methods will break her prisoners over those that will simply kill them.

But even if they did ask, even if they did have suspicions about her, she doubts they would ever believe that the reason she knows all this, is because she has experienced it - _and far worse_ \- firsthand.

Suddenly, with a sharp, blinding stab of pain, a bone in her left arm completely snaps in half, and a bright white light flashes before Regina’s eyes.

 _Oh-fuck-oh-fuck-oh-fuckfuckfuck_ -

The bone pushes out through her skin and, _gods_ , not two seconds later, the other one breaks beneath the pressure too.

It’s excruciating, it’s horrifying agony, and it only gets worse. She fades in and out of consciousness as every bone in her hand crunches, then crumbles – the excruciating pain refusing to let her mind give in as each of her ribs starts to _snap!-snap!-snap!_ and she can feel her skin tearing as the jagged ends proceed to slice gaping holes in her.

She can’t - _oh gods_ \- she can’t breathe - it hurts, _it hurts so much -_

Her vision fades quickly, then goes utterly dark - _this is it; she can't take it_ -

She is certain she’s going to die, that she _is_ dying, that her mother is killing her, right here in the corridor and then –

It stops.

 _Everything_ stops.

The pain, the uncontrollable spasms of her body, even her mother’s hateful words - it all stops.

Regina breathes in deeply and is shocked when she can _hear_ herself do it, the sound of her lungs refilling with long-denied air almost deafening in the absolute silence of the corridor.

She lays against the cold stones for several breaths, blinking up at the ceiling in a daze before she sits up slowly, carefully, afraid that she’s either died or that she’s gone into some strange state of shock. She’s terrified that at any second the pain will come right back, that it will slam into her like a carriage and knock her right back down… but it doesn’t.

The world seems far too still around her, too quiet, like she’s just slipped into a dream. She rolls her shoulders and straightens her elbows, and when everything feels perfectly normal, she frowns. She knows for a fact that just a second ago, several of her bones were broken, they were _shattered_ , jagged shards piercing through her flesh in a gruesome display, but when she looks down and flexes her fingers - _oh_ \- that’s when she finally sees it.

Her hands are glowing purple.

She stares at them for a long time, at the beautiful, lavender light that shimmers around both of her palms, watches in awe and confusion as it swirls slowly like smoke, before it slips over her skin and simply dissipates into the air as if it was never there in the first place.

Magic.

But not her mother’s magic.

No.

_Hers._

Cora quietly clears her throat and Regina finally looks up at her, almost having forgotten she was there in the first place.

“Don’t think for one second that this changes anything,” Cora growls, staring at Regina’s hands. “Your pathetic outburst tonight is nothing, just as _you_ are nothing - not without a child to tie Leopold to you. Now, do as I say - pick yourself up off that floor and go make your husband an heir. This discussion is over.”

Cora turns on her heel and starts to stalk off down the corridor, but for the first time in her life, Regina has lost some of her fear of her mother, and out of nowhere, her audacious nature suddenly sparks to life. Resolve flickers through her veins as she gets to her feet, and just as her mother turns the corner, Regina lifts her head and warns, “This is _far_ from over.”


	15. More Precious than Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - discussions about previous chapter parent/child abuse

Robin hasn’t been able to stop grinning. He knows he had better quit it, that it’s odd for a bloke to walk around so cheery for what appears to be no reason, but he can’t help it.

Last night had been a real turning point between him and Regina. He wasn’t sure it was going to go that way at first, not when she’d refused to hear what he and the Merry Men are up to. He’d been frustrated that she wouldn’t let him explain, wouldn’t let him prepare her, but after listening to her reasons why, well, he sort of sees her point. She doesn’t want to be implicated, she doesn’t want to know any details because if she doesn’t know anything, she can’t give anything away. And, perhaps most intriguing of all - she doesn’t want to know when he’s going to complete his mission, because _apparently_ she’s going to be upset when he's due to leave.

It seems neither one of them fancies the idea of ending this thing they’ve started.

She may not see this as a "relationship", but she’s beginning to see it as _something_ , and he figures that’s a step in the right direction, or at least, the same direction his foolish heart has been heading.

It thrills him that she’s starting to let him in, that she's letting her guard down and allowing him to get a look at that hard little heart of hers. Only, he suspects that her heart isn't hard at all, oh no - her heart is as soft as they come, which is why she guards it so fiercely.

Take, for instance, the fact that for the first time ever, Regina let him lay in bed with her all night. She’s been a bit twitchy about that - typically, she doesn’t like to go anywhere near her bed when they’re together. She usually opts for the chaise or the big wingback chair, which he suspects is because of the way her husband mistreats her, but last night when he’d asked to stay, she had surprised him. She'd studied him with her anxious and infinitely expressive brown eyes, her brow furrowed as if she was trying to decipher some sort of code, then she had nodded and done him the honor of lying beside him.

Normally that's well out of bounds - rarely does she let him cuddle her, (though he isn't sure why, since she seems to enjoy it as long as she's not _thinking_ about it,) and she's never slept with him, not in the real sense of the words.

Not until last night.

Last night, well now, that was a different story. When they settled down together, she had looked nervous as hell, and, perhaps now _he's_ the one with the soft heart, because it had _moved_ him. He couldn’t stand that she was so ill at ease over such a simple, ordinary thing. She should be able to get into bed with her lover without looking like she's terrified. She should be able to relax, to enjoy the moment like anyone else would, not lay there stiff as a board and dreadfully silent, and it annoyed him to no end that she was clearly struggling by just having him in bed beside her.

He hadn't known what the correct course of action was, but he knew that he didn't want to leave. So he took a chance and decided that instead of giving her the space she's always putting between them, the space that always ends their night with guilty glances and awkward goodbyes, he pulled her over to him and tucked her into his chest so tightly that there wasn’t an inch of space between them.

And then he’d done something _he’d_ never done - not with _anyone_ \- before.

He’d held her without a damned thing but her comfort in mind; he’d rubbed her back, held her hands, and coaxed her into calmness with kiss, after kiss, _after kiss._ He did everything he could think of to make her feel good – to make her feel _safe_ in his arms. He had even thought up funny little stories to break the tension, just stupid things he's done that he thought might make her laugh. He had teased and touched her with every ounce of friendship and compassion he had in him, until she finally settled in and graced him with that elusive, but satisfying smile he thinks about every time he closes his eyes.

Gods, he’s got it bad for her.

It had been smashing after that - she actively, willingly snuggled up with him against her soft feather pillows, chatting, touching, and just enjoying each other's company. She even talked and shared a silly story of her own - technically, it was about Snow, but he'll take it - while he ran his fingers through her long, jet-black hair, slow and steady, until she had drifted off to sleep.

He wishes he could’ve stayed with her this morning, that they could have at least shared a cup of coffee or a spot of tea, but he supposes it’s better this way. He’s getting quite weak-kneed when it comes to her; he can already tell it’s going to be difficult to keep his feelings to himself, and he doesn’t want to put pressure on her. He knows that this is as far as this relationship can go, she’s been more than clear on that, and he doesn’t want to lose her before he must.

But she’s full of surprises, his Queen – and he never expected her to ask him to do the things they did last night, though he’s thrilled she did. She even let him finger her properly, _begged him_ to do it, though he’d argued for a solid ten minutes against it. It’s not that he didn’t want to – on the contrary, he’s been dying to do it for the last two years – but it’s against her rules. Rules she’d told him she put in place because apparently she has had some rubbish shoved into her head about her cunt belonging to the King.

Robin swears, how no one has knifed that no-good-lying-piece-of-shite they all call King yet, is a bloody-fucking travesty.

He wants to be respectful of Regina and her rules though, and while he doesn’t quite understand them, he wants to follow them. He figures these sort of decisions have got to be up to her though – she’s got to be in charge of what they do and when, and he’ll follow her lead when she decides she’s ready to try something new.

So last night, when she promised Robin that she was ready for him to use his fingers, when she pledged that she was certain, _pleaded_ for him to use them, and swore that she’d tell him to _Stop_ if she changed her mind, he’d caved. She’s a grown woman and he wants to give her what she wants. He wants to touch her, wants to pleasure her, wants to get her off in every single way possible. And he wants to be the only man she needs to do it.

She lights up with just the slightest touch of dominance, it’s easy to see by the way she begs him to hold her down, to fill her up, to slap that perfect arse of hers until his own hand is smarting and sore, and blimey, if that’s what she needs to find her release, that’s exactly what he’ll give her.

 _Gods_.

He’s got so many more fantasies about her now, so many things he’s dying to do with her, _to_ her… She’s got him reevaluating things, got him _wanting_ so many things he knows he can’t have, but fuck-all if he doesn’t want them anyway.

After everything that happened last night, there’s this persistent, annoying little thought in his head now about how he wants her - wants her to be _with him_ \- in every way possible _._ He wants her to trust him, wants to find every single one of her limits and make her feel so safe that she begs him to take her past them, just like she did last night. He wants to be her man, wants to save her from this life, wants her to run off with him and never even think about looking back.

He’s plenty capable of doing it. As an outlaw, he’s smuggled all kinds of things - liquor, artifacts, precious gems, crates of imported spices and even a few indentured servants to freedom. So if she wants it, he’ll get her the hell out of here. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing that can stop him.

Robin knows that she doesn’t want that though, that she’d never even consider running away with him, and he doesn’t expect her to. But that doesn’t stop his ever-creative mind from mapping out a few escape routes - you know, just in case.

He’s spent the day in town, gathering a few supplies and paying off some favors he owed, but he’s on his way back to Regina now after having agreed this morning to slip back into her room again, just after dinner. By pure chance, when he rounds a corner off the main hall, just past the council chambers, there she is - walking in his direction down the long castle corridor.

She doesn’t notice him right away, and dressed up in this ale delivery man disguise, he doesn’t expect her to. Robin learned long ago that the best place to hide is often in plain sight - at least during daylight hours, anyway.

Her head is down and she’s staring intently at her hands, which she’s holding out in front of her, turning over and back, over and back, as she slowly picks her way along the corridor, and though he can’t see her expression, the odd way she’s half-stumbling has him frowning and picking up his pace.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty.” He gives her a proper bow upon meeting her, just as any good delivery man should greet his Queen.

“Mmhmm.”

She doesn’t even pick up her head as she shuffles past him, and as he rights himself, he feels a bit foolish. Did she really not recognize him? His disguise isn’t _that_ good.

“Your Majesty?” he calls after her, but she doesn’t reply at all this time, and when she just keeps ambling down the hall, that little sixth sense in him kicks madly at his chest and tells him -

_Something isn’t right._

Robin looks up and down the hallway to be sure there aren’t any prying eyes, and though he can hear the muffled tones of the King and his council talking through the closed double doors just beside him, no one else is in sight. He dashes back down the hall until he’s caught up with her and moves in front of Regina so that he’s blocking her path. Finally, she looks up, and all the air in his lungs gets sucked right out of him.

“My gods, what's happened?” he gasps, automatically reaching to cup her face with both hands and then pulling up sharply. He knows he can’t touch her in public - certainly not like that - but the urge to is nearly overwhelming.

The right side of her face is caked with blood, her temple, her cheekbone, _gods,_ the crimson trail has dripped all the way down to her collarbone, and though he can’t see the wound, it’s clear she’s taken a nasty blow to the face.

“Hmm?” she looks up at Robin as if she’s just now noticed him, but he’s relieved that she at least looks happy to see him, a strange, small smile turning up the corners of her lips as her eyes run over him. One of her delicate hands moves to the front of his cotton shirt, where she glides her fingers over his chest, pausing to tug lightly on the ties at the neckline and to trace the embroidery that spells out the name of the importer from which he allegedly brought a shipment. She seems lost, dazed, for several seconds before she tells him quietly, “Oh, I went with Leopold to visit Snow. But then my mother showed up, and she didn’t want me to see her…”

Regina trails off with tears in her eyes, and she looks so sad that his own silly heart aches as he does his best to locate the cut on her head.

“We argued,” she squints, “And then Leopold, he…” Regina drops her eyes and looks away from him.

In an instant, Robin’s blood _boils._

“ _He did this???_ ”

His hand is already ripping his largest hidden dagger from its sheath, his eyes wide, nostrils flaring, his lips curled back in a rage-filled snarl as he takes two hard steps in the direction of the council chambers. That fucking prick is just behind that door and Robin is going to _end_ him. He’s going to skin him alive. He’s going to drive this dagger straight through Leopold’s eye and make him pay for ever raising a hand to her. He’s going to teach him the definition of pain. He’s going to –

“ _Robin, no!"_

Regina’s harsh whisper catches him at the same time her hand grabs a firm hold of his forearm and jerks him back around.

“Wait! Just hold on a second, it wasn’t him, Robin, _wait!”_

He waits, but it takes every ounce of his self-control to do so. He’s vibrating with rage, nearly insane with it – the only thing keeping him here is the pleading of her mocha eyes and the desperate clutching of her hand.

“Who then?” he demands, waving his knife angrily. “Who did this? I’m going to bloody-fucking kill them, I don’t care who it is. _I demand you tell me who it is!_ ”

She gives him a look like she’s utterly confused, like she doesn’t even _comprehend_ what he’s saying, like he’s started speaking in tongues. So he repeats his statement, as if that will make it make sense to her, but Regina’s brow just furrows as she starts to shake her head.

When he continues to insist that someone must pay for hurting her, that more than a conversation is about to be had with this person, she grabs him by the collar and drags him out of the corridor, through a nearby door that is adjacent to the council chambers. From the stores and supplies within, Robin deduces that the room is used to supply the council members with food and drink during their long meetings, but since the hour has grown late, the staff appear to have already tidied up for the day and left.

“It was my mother.”

Regina tucks her long, sticky, blood-caked bangs back behind her ear, and he hates how her statement sounds almost like a confession, how it’s got this guilty undertone that makes him even more angry. The fact that she has suffered at the hands of her own mother makes his chest constrict with the urge to protect her, stirs up this deep-seated defensiveness that simmers in his veins with every single beat of his heart.

“ _How dare she_ -” he starts, absolutely livid. He’s not afraid of that witch - he’ll make her pay for this, a full-frontal assault might not work, but he can be clever, he can -

“But I’m okay now,” Regina interrupts his thoughts, tugging at his collar to bring his attention back to her. “Robin, I’m fine. I… I’m healed.”

“What do you mean, you’re _healed_?” He studies the blood that is caked to her pretty face and neck, sweeps his eyes over the rest of her and notices several dark splotches along both sides of her ribs. Sure enough, when he reaches out to run his hand over the side of her corset, it comes away smeared with her blood.

She sure as _fuck_ doesn’t seem fine.

“Well, I…” she looks down at her hands for a moment, then back up at him. “I don’t know what happened, exactly. She was using her magic on me, then suddenly it just… stopped. The next thing I knew there was magic coming from my hands and, Robin, I think that I, that maybe I stopped her, that maybe I healed myself this time.”

“ _This time?_ ” Robin swears he’s going to murder that vile shrew for what she’s done to Regina. This is absolutely not alright - it’s awful, it’s terrible, it’s frightening as hell, and it’s not even the first fucking time.

Regina purses her lips and instead of answering him, she says, “At least I know the next time she tries to kill me, I might stand a chance. Though I don’t know how I managed to do… what I did. I don’t have magic, not like that.”

Robin wants to continue to rage over Cora - every fiber of him is furious about what has happened - but as he looks at Regina, he can see that his anger isn’t helping her at all. She’s confused and upset, and _talking_ is what she wants, what she needs. So, with a deep breath, he pushes his feelings down and focuses his attention on giving her exactly that.

“But you _do_ have magic, right?” Robin asks, worry bleeding into his tone that he doesn’t bother to hide. “So if you needed to, you could do whatever _that_ was again, yeah?”

“I’m not sure,” Regina holds her hands up in front of her, and Robin watches carefully as her many rings catch the light, the gemstones glittering as she turns her hands back and forth, raises them up and down, flicks her wrists, and tries all sorts of little maneuvers, as if she expects something to happen.

Except it doesn’t.

“ _Damnit_ ,” she huffs. “I, I don’t know what happened today, but I’ve never had magic like that before. I only inherited a little of my mother’s gift - she always said I have too much of my father in me, that he _diluted her bloodline,_ so all I can really do is craft potions and read old Elvish _._ ”

Regina looks down and fiddles with the bottom edge of her corset, looking small, looking very much like the young girl her mother abused so terribly as she quietly adds, “Sometimes though, when I’m _really_ upset, I can move a small object. Not very far, not even enough to throw it, but I guess there’s that.”

“That’s something, then, isn’t it?” he watches as she bites her lip and shakes her head.

“No. My mother has assured me that that’s about as basic as magic can be. So to answer your question, no - if she does something like that again, I don’t know if I could repeat it, that I could stop her a second time.”

“ _Christ._ ” Robin grits his teeth, and he can’t stop from reaching for her, cupping her face gently and double checking her bloodied cheek for a wound. “This mess on your face, it’s not the half of what she did to you, is it?”

Regina looks away, her pretty brown eyes shift off to the side of him, and again, he wants to scream, wants to explode with indignant rage. He wants to go off about how angry he is at her mother for _ever_ laying a finger on her, wants to shout about how wrong it is, how this should never have happened to her, not even once.

She doesn’t tell him all the other horrid ways her mother had been hurting her though. Instead, Regina pulls away, picks up a nearby towel from a drying rack, and she uses it to start cleaning the blood from her face.

And then, to his complete shock, she _defends_ the bitch.

“Sometimes she just loses control,” she mutters, still not looking at him. “She was angry with me for seeing Snow and concerned that I might get sick too. She was trying to teach me a lesson, that's all. Sometimes she just goes too far.”

And just when he thought his heart couldn’t break more for Regina, here she is, trying to tell him how that wicked beast of a woman somehow, in some twisted, sick, disgusting way, might possibly have had good intentions when she clearly just tried to _kill her._

Gods. Regina’s relationship with her mother is far more fucked up than he thought.

Robin is a strict believer that a parent should never lay hands on their child, that there are far better ways to teach, to show right from wrong. And now he doesn’t know if these tears are in his eyes because he’s furious over the fact that she was injured, or because she doesn’t seem to realize that it _never should have happened in the first place._ He doesn’t care that she’s a fully grown adult. Your parents are your parents, no matter how old you get, and this behavior of her mother’s is completely reprehensible.

“There’s no excuse for this,” he argues - but gently, _carefully_ \- unable to stop himself as these feelings he’s harboring for her rise up, and up, _and up,_ to shove the words right out of his mouth.

He has to do something with his hands other than punch the nearest wall, so he busies himself by fetching a basin. When he returns to her, he grabs her around the waist and boosts her up onto the table in the middle of the room, where he insists on taking over the cleaning of her face. “She should be ashamed of herself, Regina. This is no way for a parent to treat their child.”

“I am not a child,” she snaps, looking _very_ offended as she shoves his hands away, and Robin sighs, knowing now is not the time to argue with her.

Instead, he rinses the cloth as he redirects, “What does she even think it will accomplish?”

“Fear is quite an effective tool.”

Robin frowns, then tentatively brings the cloth back to her face, where he waits for her permission before he touches her again. He is relieved when Regina closes her eyes and nods, allowing him to swipe the cloth gently across her skin, removing the blood from her forehead, cheek, neck, and collarbone - _gods_ , even the inside of her ear. This must have been one hell of a cut.

Her voice is quiet, curious when, a few minutes later she opens her eyes and asks, “Didn’t your parents ever punish you?”

“They taught me right from wrong, yes, but they never struck me.” He frowns at the way pure, heartbreakingly innocent surprise flashes in her eyes, followed by what very much looks like embarrassment - her cheeks even go a bit pink - so he quickly continues, “My father had a gentle nature, he never raised his voice - I never even heard him use a curse word. And my mother,” he smiles at the memory of her. “She had a bit more nerve, she could get good and cross, but only when I gave her reason to.”

“Oh?” Regina’s brows raise and a little smile tips her thick lips, “What sort of reasons?”

Robin grins. “You know, just the usual stuff we country lads get into - startling the chickens into spastic fits or thieving all the neighbor's knickers off the drying line. Or anytime she caught me winding up my little sister.”

“You have a sister?”

Robin’s heart falls, and now it’s his turn to look down. He didn’t mean to bring her up, he hasn’t talked about Belle with anyone since he found out that she died.

“I uh, well,” he stumbles over his words like a ruddy idiot before he finally chokes out, “I _had_ a sister but uh, she’s dead.”

He recalls the way Belle’s bright blue eyes were a perfect match to his own, can almost hear her sweet giggle when he’d swing her up on his shoulders, nearly smiles when he thinks of the way she’d spend hours poring over the few books he had stolen for her.

When he finally manages to look back up, Regina is staring at him with this expression that looks like she might vomit at any second, and he automatically takes a half of a step back, wondering if he’s offended her.

“What?”

“Did I?” she whispers, raising one hand to cover her mouth. “Am I responsible?”

Oh, right. Of course she’d think that.

“No,” he shakes his head, because despite her reputation, she isn’t at fault for _his_ family’s death. “My family died a couple of years before you became Queen,” he quickly explains, “From what I’ve been told, they were living on the streets and it was starvation that did them in, or the cold, perhaps. I suppose it could’ve been a bit of both.”

“From what you’ve been told?” she repeats, and he gives her a grim nod. “You weren’t with them?”

“I was serving my time,” he swallows thickly and goes back to gently cleaning the last of the blood from her face, just to give his hands something to do.

“You were in prison?”

“I was indentured.”

"Why?"

He doesn’t see any way around telling her the story, so he figures he ought to just get it over with.

“Well, my family owned a tavern, and halfway through that year, your _Kind King,_ ” he can’t hide his scowl, “he saw fit to triple taxes on imports - barley, hops, and the like. Most townsfolk, my mum and dad included, were able to cover that - barely - but Leopold wasn’t satisfied. Apparently, he had quite a few debts to pay, and he hadn’t sufficiently refilled his coffers, so he decided to go on and triple them again, plus interest.”

Robin takes a deep breath as he continues, trying to keep his voice even and his emotions level. He doesn’t want to burden her with his messy past even if she is inquiring about it. He certainly doesn’t want her pity.

“So anyway, at year’s end, he sent his tax collectors around with the Sheriff to get the difference in back taxes. Our tavern had been robbed repeatedly by both outlaws _and_ by the Sheriff’s men that year - dirty bastards - and being that we didn’t have any money after the first round of extra taxes, we ended up owing a large debt.”

He sighs and chews his lip before he shamefully admits, “I was seventeen at the time and thought that I could fix it, that I could strike a deal with the Sheriff that would pay off the debt and keep my family safe. And, blimey, it should have.”

Regina’s hand comes up to stroke his cheek and when her fingertips rub softly along the hinge of his jaw, he notices he’s clenching his teeth, and he has to force himself to relax before he continues.

“I offered myself up for indentured servitude for five years to pay off what my family owed,” he tells her, “and that should have more than covered our debts.” He looks heavenward and shakes his head. “I gave up five years of my life thinking I’d saved them, only to find out later that the deal conveniently got left off the books. So while I was breaking my back for the bloody-fucking-Sheriff, he was having a grand old time taking our tavern, our house, the livestock - _everything_ we owned, and my family was left with nothing.”

Regina scrunches her brow as he speaks, but otherwise does not interrupt.

“We had no family to take them in, no friends who could afford them, so they ended up begging.” He takes another deep breath, checks her face and deems her sufficiently cleaned up, then deposits the bloody washcloth in the basin, feeling defeated and ashamed.

Robin scratches his jaw self-consciously, the rasp of his nails loud in the quiet of the room as he finishes, “From what I was told, it didn’t take long after that. We didn’t have much to begin with, and winters are harsh, you know? I’m sure I don’t have to tell _you,_ the Enchanted Forest isn’t known for its generosity.”

Regina holds his eyes for a long moment, then sincerely tells him, “I’m so sorry, Robin.”

He shakes his head. “Not as sorry as I am.”

A few seconds of silence pass before she breaks it to ask, “Your sister,” her tone is soft and gentle, and he appreciates her treading carefully now, “How old was she?”

“Belle? She was ten. She was seven years younger than me - a bit of a surprise to my parents, but a happy one. They always wanted a big family, but all they got was the two of us. I suppose that was a good thing, in the end. Less… loss.”

He cringes and looks away, but Regina reaches out and takes his hand, asks softly, “Did you get along? You and, Belle, was it?”

“Yeah,” he manages to smile. “Mostly we did. She was one of a kind, Belle - brave, independent - she never wanted help from anyone. Smart as a whip too. Taught herself how to read and write, and she taught me too.”

Regina smiles kindly at him. “Ah. I wondered about the letter you left me. And by how quickly you picked up those Elvish numbers.”

He smiles back, proud of his literacy, even though he knows it’s not at all a big deal for someone of her class. “Yeah, that’s all Belle. She forced me to learn,” he chuckles softly. “She used to tell me that I couldn’t be a ruddy idiot my _whole_ life, just the first seven years before she came along.”

Regina laughs, and he squeezes her hand, steps in closer and presses a kiss to her damp temple.

“She had so much potential,” he smiles and nuzzles against the side of Regina’s head, breathes in the scent of her soap and the fancy oils she uses in her hair, and does his best to ignore the lingering scent of blood that he tried to wipe away. “She was really going places, you know? I’ll admit that I’m clever sometimes, but she had real brains. She was _intelligent._ She could’ve been anything.”

The anger slams into him again and makes him scowl, makes him curse under his breath, and for the millionth time, he mutters, “What a bloody-fucking-waste.”

He starts to pull away, not wanting to share this ugly emotion with her, but Regina’s arms suddenly come up to wrap around his shoulders and she pulls him down to her, holding him tightly until he gives in and wraps his arms around her small waist. It’s a comforting, sweet embrace, and it touches him that she offers to share in this emotion that has boiled his blood for so many years.

A beat passes, then Regina relaxes her grip on him and leans back to catch his eyes as she muses softly, “Snow isn’t quite so brainy, but what she lacks in raw intelligence, she makes up for in heart.”

She gives him a wink - she’s adorably bad at it, it’s more of an exaggerated blink - and it makes him smile, takes the edge off his anger and shifts the conversation to something a little lighter.

“She’s the kindest person I have ever known.”

“She is a sweet girl,” he agrees. “Did you know she thinks I’m her shadow?”

Regina’s brows shoot up. “I beg your pardon?”

Robin laughs and shakes his head at the memory as he confesses, “When she was a bit younger, maybe twelve or thirteen, I crossed paths with her in one of the secret passageways,” he grins. “We were both completely startled to run into one another - it’s pitch black in those passages, and she was quite right to be frightened. Well, children are rubbish at keeping secrets, you know, so I had to think fast - I couldn’t risk her tattling on me to her very observant, _very_ protective stepmother.”

Regina grins and avidly agrees.

“So I spun her a tale about how I was her shadow, how I was there to watch over her, just like Peter Pan’s shadow did for him in her storybooks. I even had a few acorns on me, so I gave her one to prove that I was who I said I was. And wouldn’t you know it, she bloody-well believed me.”

Regina snickers, “Oh, Snow.”

Robin nods. “It sort of became our thing over the years. I ran into her a handful of times after that, and she was always _so_ polite.” He makes his voice high and mimics Snow, “ _Oh hello Shadow! However are you? It’s been such a long time since we’ve met!”_

Regina cracks up and he laughs along with her.

“Gods,” she shakes her head and rolls her eyes, then thumps her forehead against his collarbone, “That girl is something else. Now, if only my mother could be so easily duped.”

“Doesn’t she have to go back to her own bloody kingdom once in a while?” he huffs, unable to hold back his annoyance.

She laughs softly. “Unfortunately, while my father is still in Misthaven, there’s no getting rid of her. Believe it or not, when given the rare opportunity, he somehow manages to be a competent King.”

“But what does she want?” He knows he’s getting into territory that is none of his business, that he shouldn’t pry, but he can’t help it. Her mother is a devil, and the sooner they are rid of her, the better.

“She wants me to have Leopold’s children,” Regina sighs. “She says it’s the key to becoming the powerful Queen I’m supposed to be.”

“Is that what _you_ want?”

She gives him an annoyed look that clearly says, _it doesn’t matter what I want_ , but when he stubbornly repeats his question, she sighs and says, “It’s not that I don’t want children, but the thought of having _his_ children, of not being able to have any say in their lives, of not being able to raise them the way I want…”

“Everyone says what a good father Leopold has been to Snow,” Robin states, hating that he’s defending the man, but it’s no secret that the King adores his daughter, that he dotes on her _endlessly_.

Regina agrees with him, so he asks, “Would he not be good to your children as well?”

“I doubt he would know them at all, and even if he bothered to, they would never be _Eva’s_ children. They would never be as worthy of his love.” She rolls her eyes and continues, “And I am certain he would send my children as far away as he could, as soon as he could, in order to protect his investment and use them as leverage against me. They would be my ultimate weakness. I don’t know how my mother doesn’t understand that.”

“Fuck that,” Robin growls, disliking both Leopold and Cora impossibly more. “ _Fuck_ what they want, _fuck_ what they’re trying to make you do, Regina. It’s rubbish.”

It isn’t fair that they have so much control over her, that Regina must be so afraid of what might happen if they get their way. The more Robin learns about her, the more he’s beginning to understand her constant level of supreme frustration – he can hear her chorus of _Have some respect!_ and _I am the Queen!_ and _It’s Your Majesty!_ echoing loudly in his head - and it makes him cringe, because it never seems to matter in the way it should. Not with her husband and her mother behind the scenes, pulling the strings like she’s a marionette, controlling her every move.

If it were up to him, he’d grab Regina’s hand and take her out of this place _right now_. He’d steal her away like the priceless treasure she is, and he’d take her wherever she wanted to go - wherever she felt safe. Then he’d take that stupid gold ring off her left ring finger, and he’d make a hundred adorable babies with her that he’d cherish the hell out of for every single day for the rest of his life. And he’d never let her mother, _or_ the King get anywhere near her, ever again.

_Fuck._

Oh, fuck.

 _Blimey_.

He… he’s _really_ got feelings for her.

 _Shit_.

“Leopold lied to my mother today,” Regina grumbles, oblivious to Robin’s internal revelations. “He basically begged me to go see Snow, and then when we got caught, he blamed the whole thing on me.”

Suddenly she’s recounting everything that happened to her earlier, talking fast and almost frantic, the whole story pouring out of her as she reaches for Robin’s shirt and twists her fingers around in the cheap fabric.

“I _hate_ him, Robin. I have hated him for thirteen years, and every day, I swear my contempt only grows. If it wasn’t for Snow, I…” Regina trails off and bites her lip as her eyes dart around the room. “I just wish there was a way I could make him pay for these things he does, you know? I’m the Queen, hell, I’m the _Evil Queen_ , and the one person I’d like to punish most is the one person I can’t fucking touch.”

He understands her frustration, has wrestled with similar feelings of unfairness, of helplessness, of being held captive, and he knows how infuriating it can be.

“I’m sorry, darling,” he sighs, kisses her temple and asks, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

She scoffs and shakes her head, then seems to think better of it. Her tone is full of curiosity when she asks, “Imagine for a moment that you were Leopold.”

He makes a face of pure disgust, and she snickers.

“What could I do to really punish you, what could I do that you couldn’t kill me for, but would drive you insane?”

Robin thinks hard for a moment about what would irritate him most if _he_ were King, if he were a bloated knobhead like Leopold who had an incredible wife like Regina, if he had all the worldly possessions and conveniences that that bastard constantly takes for granted. He thinks about what might make him furious, what would really wreck him as a man, what might destroy his picture of perfect happiness, but which he couldn’t send Regina to the gallows for, and when it hits him, a mischievous smile curves his lips.

“You could be happy.”


	16. Shadows of Doubt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - domestic emotional abuse, nasty arguments, people generally being cruel to each other

“Regina, are you planning on answering me sometime today? Are you even listening?” Leopold scowls at her, narrows his eyes over his golden goblet, and chomps noisily on his toasted bread.

In return, she rolls her eyes and tries to focus, sits up straighter in her chair, and pretends she wasn’t just thinking about the way Robin spent the morning with his head between her thighs.

_Robin had been flushed this morning, his eyes hungry, his lips thoroughly kiss-swollen as he urged her to lay back upon her writing desk and went to his knees before her. He had already unlaced the upper half of her corset, so her breasts were spilling out the top, her nipples peaked and slick from his teasing mouth, and when he shoved her navy-blue skirts up around her waist - gods - in all her life, she had never felt so unbridled, so openly, so shamelessly aroused._

_“Just close your eyes and relax, Regina,” he had said, dragging her underwear off, then trailing his nails lightly across her inner thighs as he sucked hot kisses along the curve of her mons._

_“Just shut the world out. Right now, there’s only this…”_

_He had paused to slowly run his tongue through her slit, to circle her entrance before closing his lips over her sensitive inner lips and sucking gently. Her breath had stuttered, her back arched, and she could hear his smirk as he continued, “All you need to pay attention to is the way you feel when I suck on your perfect, pretty little clit.”_

_Robin had barely had to try to get her off this morning - she was already sensitive from having spent another passionate night together - but that hadn’t stopped him from giving her his best efforts anyway. He had held her thighs firmly over his broad shoulders while he pressed his tongue to her clit and rubbed with an enthusiasm that had made her head drop back with a <thunk> he had- _

“Confound it, Regina!” Leopold snaps, and she just barely manages to school her features enough not to blush. “Are you going to answer me?”

Finally, she takes a deep breath and responds with a well-practiced air of complete boredom, “Why? It’s not as if you’re actually looking for my input.” She locks eyes with Leopold before she challenges, “Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to contribute to the conversation, and save us all from this little guessing game?”

“So you _didn’t_ hear what I said.” Her husband’s round face is quickly reddening with his annoyance.

No, she definitely _did not_ hear him, and she doesn’t fucking care that she didn’t. So without saying anything, she simply shrugs and goes back to her breakfast.

“I’m really starting to wonder why I even try with you,” Leopold grouses.

Regina wonders if he really believes bitching at her over breakfast is _trying_. She wonders what her Thief would think of this, if it would infuriate him to see how her husband defines “trying”.

Probably.

“Well then, since you’re not interested in participating in our conversation, I guess I shouldn’t bother to tell you that my darling Snow has taken a turn for the worse,” Leopold says nastily. “At this very moment, she’s barely hanging on by a thread.”

Her husband’s declaration is like a bucket of icy river water being dumped over her head, and Regina’s stomach plummets with fear for her beloved stepdaughter. She couldn’t care less about whatever else Leopold had been droning on about - she hadn’t heard a single word he said up until now - but that doesn’t give him the right to throw such terrifying information about Snow in her face.

“What is it? What has happened to Snow?” she sits forward in alarm, her concern making her flush.

“Oh, look who’s interested in talking now,” Leopold drawls sarcastically, then promptly goes back to his breakfast.

“Leopold,” she hisses, “Tell me what’s wrong with Snow. Tell me this instant!”

He’s not even looking at her - he’s cutting up a piece of sausage as he contends, “Now, why should I discuss something that has _absolutely nothing_ to do with you, when you refuse to converse about other matters of importance with me?”

Regina’s blood boils with irritation, with suspicion over what Leopold is saying. She thinks he might be lying about Snow, and she considers calling his bluff, but… what if he isn’t? What if there _is_ something terribly wrong with Snow, and she doesn’t find out until it’s too late? God knows her mother won’t tell her if her stepdaughter has taken a turn for the worse, and the Royal Healer is not an option - the man has an obsession with her that she’d rather not encourage by going to see him - so Leopold really is her best source for information at the moment.

 _Shit_.

She has no other choice but to play his stupid game.

“Alright,” she caves, “You’ve made your point. You have my attention.”

Leopold glances up from his plate, skepticism written plainly in his features.

“Leo,” she lowers her voice and hates - _fucking hates herself -_ for what she says next. “Leo, please. I’m sorry,” her simpering, pathetic tone makes her want to throw herself off the nearest balcony. “I didn’t sleep well last night, and I’m tired this morning, but I promise, I’m paying attention now. Please tell me what’s wrong with your daughter.”

“You didn’t sleep well, hmm?” he repeats, looking her over, studying her features to see if she’s lying.

“No, I… I tossed and turned all night.”

Technically, it’s not a lie. Robin tossed and turned her - onto her back, onto her stomach, up on all fours, across his lap - all night long. She barely got _any_ sleep.

“Yes, you do look a bit peaked this morning,” he frowns, then, much to her relief, he gives in.

“Snow’s had a terribly high fever for the past two days…” He watches her carefully as she sets down her fork, immediately too upset, too afraid for her stepdaughter to even _think_ , let alone eat.

“It finally broke this morning, though there’s been no further improvement. She still looks like death.”

Regina sets her jaw as her own irritation really starts to flare. It’s been _two days,_ and nobody thought to mention that Snow’s condition had worsened. _Two fucking days_ and she hasn’t heard a peep about it, not from her mother, not from Leopold, not from _anybody._

Damn them. _Goddamn them all._

She’s had suspicions that the reason she’s been banned from seeing her stepdaughter is so that Leopold can hold it over her head, that he’s been purposely keeping her in the dark just so he can torture her in moments like this. And, from the stunt he just pulled and the smug look on his round face, she can tell that she is at least partially right.

“So is she-”

“That’s all I’ll say on the matter,” he cuts her off quickly, his expression morphing from victorious and arrogant to flat out paranoid as he leans forward in his breakfast chair and adds, “I’ll not discuss specifics in the open. Not when I’ve confirmed that there’s something sinister at work here, something more to this sickness than what’s on the surface.”

Leopold’s hazel eyes are narrowed, almost calculating as he lowers his voice conspiratorially and informs her, “We must be more careful - there are eyes and ears everywhere, Regina. I’ll not be so easily usurped, I am not some juvenile, naive King, you know.”

“Clearly,” she deadpans.

Leopold ignores her barb but pauses to enjoy a long sip of his wine, allowing the suspense to build as he tears his toast into several pieces before he continues.

“There’s more to this - I can _feel_ it. It started with those thefts and it’s _still_ happening. Someone is after my throne again, Regina. I know it. I haven’t uncovered who it is just yet, but I’ve got some leads and I know that someone is plotting something - watching me, _spying_ on me. And while it does not surprise me that you haven’t noticed anything amiss, I’ve decided it’s time you paid attention to something other than yourself, _wife_. ”

“You’re babbling nonsense, dear,” she dismisses with a curl of her lip, folds her hands tightly in her lap and paints the mask of perpetual indifference on her face that she reserves just for Leopold. “A few misplaced cufflinks do not a conspiracy make. Surely no one is _after_ you.”

Leopold immediately looks irate, and it takes everything in her to keep a straight face and not roll her eyes at him as she adds, “You’re the King of the Enchanted Forest. Surely, such an endeavor would be a fool’s errand.”

“Of course it would,” Leopold’s temper abates as fast as it rose, his ego stroked, and he proceeds to relax back in his chair. “But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. This is politics, I don’t expect _you_ to understand how cutthroat it can be.”

Regina is unable to hold back her glower. If she wanted to, she could easily out-politick her husband any day of the week. Leopold is far too yielding in his negotiations with other kingdoms, is easily swayed by empty promises and pretty baubles instead of seeking long-term investments, and this kingdom has paid the price many times over for it. If he knew how many of his deals in recent years were padded in his favor by his advisor’s abilities to renegotiate the first second his back was turned, he’d certainly die from the shock of it.

Perhaps she should tell him.

“You may have a formal education Regina, but this is something they don’t teach you at the Royal Academy. You can’t comprehend how quickly these assassins work, how they can replace an entire line of succession.” He forks a large piece of sausage into his mouth, swallows it almost whole, and points the golden utensil at her.

“If they can get to Snow, they can get to you. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t. You should be thanking me for your current safety, for the fact that I’ve had the foresight all these years to provide you with your own guardsmen. Otherwise, all of my heirs might’ve been compromised.”

Regina can’t count how many arguments she has had with her husband about why she needs her own guards. They must have bickered over it hundreds of times in the last thirteen years, and she is certain that the only reason he allows her to retain them is because they are a remnant of when Eva was queen. In fact, some of the very same men who currently protect Regina, her Lieutenant included, also protected Eva, and she’s just lucky Leopold never gets rid of anything that had to do with his first wife.

“Yes,” Regina says sarcastically. “Good thing you insisted I keep them all these years.”

“I’m certain that’s the only reason you haven’t been attacked, too.” Leopold nods as if his ridiculous theory makes perfect sense, as if he truly deserves the credit for her “safety,” then stuffs another piece of sausage into his mouth.

But she’s not at all sold on Leopold’s assassin theory. It’s not the first time her husband has feared for his throne, not the first time he’s falsely suspected a sinister plot was afoot. The older he gets, the more paranoid he seems to be, and even though motive is obvious, Regina highly doubts anyone would have the ability to attack the Crown in such a way.

Besides, if someone wanted to really put the future of the Monarchy in jeopardy, why not just cut the head off the lion to begin with? Why not start by infecting _him_? Or why not, gods forbid, just kill Snow flat out?

Her husband has misplaced a few things over the past several months – nothing major, a pair of heirloom cufflinks, a favored ascot, and several pairs of spectacles – but she attributes this to his age and general lack of attention. A few missing baubles are hardly grounds for suspecting a monarchical overthrow. And… she suspects her thief might’ve had something to do with the cufflinks - it just seems like something Robin might do to annoy him.

“What does the Royal Healer say of this?” she sighs, annoyed and exhausted by this pointless conversation.

“That fool still thinks it’s the same illness that took my Eva,” Leopold huffs begrudgingly, tossing his periwinkle napkin to the side. “But his opinion doesn’t matter. _I’m_ the King, and if _I_ say there’s more to it, then there’s more to it.”

What. An. Imbecile.

“Very well,” Regina swallows down the rest of her juice and does her best not to wish there was vodka in it. He’s a bumbling idiot, ignoring the diagnosis of the Royal Healer in favor of his own make-believe reality, simply because it supports his delusions of importance. “I’ll let you know if I notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Be sure that you do.” He starts reloading his plate with more sausages and toast, totally ignoring the platters of fruit set around him as he nods. “You find something that proves to be of use, perhaps we can find a way for you to see Snow again.”

Her heart leaps, _longs_ for such a chance, but for as much as she might want to, Regina knows better than to take the bait on that.

He’s made offers like this to her hundreds of times before, has tried to tempt her with rewards that never came. It used to work - when they were first married and she stupidly cared what he thought of her, when she was young, and naive, and desperate for the slightest hint of his approval - but she’s grown so immune to his empty promises over the years that she doesn’t even bat an eyelash at his offer.

Plus, she’s not willing to risk her mother’s wrath again, not until she figures out what the hell happened in that corridor.

“Is there anything else?” she takes a deep breath in, then breathes it slowly out, praying for patience. “I have things to do.”

“There is, actually,” he looks at her very seriously, studies her features, then frowns. “Your mother has confirmed my suspicion that you’ve been thwarting my attempts to make an heir.” His eyes are narrowed, full of mistrust as he glares at her over his plate.

Regina goes _very_ still, holds his gaze and asks quietly, “Has she now?”

“So you don’t deny it?”

“Would you believe me if I did?”

Leopold laughs. “No. You’re a deceitful brat, Regina - you always have been, which I’ll never understand. I’ve done nothing but treat you fairly since the moment I took you in.”

“Since _you took me in?_ ” she repeats, and when Leopold rolls his eyes at her, Regina becomes instantly, _royally_ offended, and she raises her voice as she repeats, “Since you _Took. Me. In???”_

Leopold’s false proclamation spikes her temper, boils it over, and her words spew arrogantly from her with venomous disdain.

“My dear husband, you really _must_ be getting forgetful in your old age,” she sneers, completely unable to rein in her temper.

“Need I remind you that _my_ royal bloodline is far more pure than _yours_ , that my ancestors were conquering entire continents while yours were still living caves? Oh, and that’s right, it’s _my_ birthright Kingdom, it is _Misthaven_ that struck the treaty with the Dragon of the Moors and brought peace to this realm! It is _Misthaven_ that funded the re-establishment of Agrabah after that ridiculous incident with the genies! It is _Misthaven_ that won the War with the Gods and ended the feud between Hades and Men! It is _Mist-ha-ven_ that is a titan when compared to this putrid, diminutive, Enchanted Swamp!”

Her anger is uncontrolled, snapping like the crack of a whip now as she lowers her voice to a rasping growl and sharply bites off each word. “My bloodline has achieved more than yours could ever _dream_ of doing _,_ my birthright is more valuable than a thousand of yours combined. But do go on, Leopold,” her eyes flash with loathing and pure hatred as she nearly vibrates in her breakfast chair. “Tell me what a _hardship_ our marriage has been for _you_.”

“No, our union has certainly not been a hardship,” he smirks, his eyes dragging downward to linger on the low neckline of her dress before he continues. “But we’re not discussing our marriage. We’re discussing _you,_ Regina, and while your pedigree is certainly something to boast, _you_ on the other hand, have achieved nothing. You _are_ nothing - especially when compared to what I once had.”

This horrid, sick feeling of self-loathing slithers down her spine as Leopold’s words sink in, and instead of snapping back at him, Regina just glares and says nothing.

What is she supposed to say? He’s not wrong - she hasn’t done a damn thing with her life.

And oh - _oh no_ \- now he has that look on his face, that stupid, wistful, pining expression, and Regina curls her upper lip in disgust, because she knows exactly what he’s about to say next.

“My Eva was the most beautiful woman to ever set foot in this Kingdom or the next. She had the most striking blue eyes, elegant, soft features, and the most agreeable temperament,” he brags.

Regina is well-educated - no, no, she is an _expert -_ in every single way that she is inferior to the late, great Eva. She certainly is _not_ in need of a history lesson. But Leopold never needs a reason to remind her of all the ways she disappoints him.

“We got along splendidly, right from the start. My Eva was a _proper wife_ , she took comfort in my touch - we never bothered with silly things like separate quarters. She understood her role as Queen and she was more than fertile, too. Pregnancy was never an obstacle. Once we decided the time was right, it didn’t take her long at all to conceive my sweet Snow. She was the perfect Queen, the perfect Mother, the perfect _woman._ ”

Regina takes a deep, shaking breath and tries to focus her energy on calming down, on ignoring the way this horrible mixture of savage indignation and crippling humiliation races through her veins, burns her eyes, and threatens to make her say and do things that will only make her situation worse.

_Gods, how she hates that dead bitch._

“Now Regina, you know that the first few years of our marriage, I had little interest in creating secondary heirs with the likes of _you_ ,” Leopold continues, clearly annoyed. “They would have been too close in age to my daughter, and Snow might have felt threatened, so there was no need to put that sort of stress on her.”

He straightens up in his chair as he continues. “But things have changed. Snow is older, nearly of age to assume her title, and now that she has taken sick, well, I find that I can take no more risks. Over the years I’ve been patient with you, I’ve tried to ease you into your role as Queen, but in light of what your mother told me, I simply can’t look the other way anymore. There’s just no excuse for this deleterious behavior of yours.”

Uncertainty bubbles within her, anxiety tightens her chest. She’s not sure what he means by saying he can’t _look the other way_ \- not when he was unaware she was thwarting his efforts in the first place. So even though she hates talking to him, hates every second she must spend in his company, she needs to know more.

“What did my mother tell you, exactly?”

“That you’ve been taking some sort of potion that kills off my seed before it’s had a chance to properly take.” His expression is one of disgust as he continues. “You know, I’ve never liked you fooling around with those potions. You’re not gifted like your mother, you don’t have her talent for magic, and you don’t have a clue what the hell you’re doing. You’re liable to render yourself infertile, playing around with things that are so far beyond your purview. Then what use will I have for you?”

She doesn’t remind him that she is a master potion maker, doesn’t defend the fact that she had a rigorous education in it, or that she has _never_ fucked up a potion, or that her teacher once told her that _in their entire life,_ they had never seen a student so adept at the craft. No, Regina doesn’t argue that, because Leopold doesn’t care, and he won’t listen to her anyway. So she argues what matters to him instead.

Money.

“The alliance between Misthaven and the Enchanted Forest is contingent on our marriage,” she snarls. He’ll not be rid of her so easily.

“An alliance which PROMISED ME HEIRS!” Leopold slaps his hand down with force, the tableware rattles noisily, and Regina jumps. “I entered into that alliance knowing it was clearly in favor of Misthaven, because I was promised a proper wife and a proper lineage! And what do I have to show for it? What have you given me?!”

Regina says nothing, and her husband’s ire flares even further.

“What have you given me, Regina?!” he repeats, then starts pointing at her.

“I’ve provided you with a life of leisure and privilege, I’ve demanded _nothing_ but the absolute minimum from you, nothing but what even the most ordinary of men would ask of their wives. I could have made your life much worse, you know! I could have made your life a living hell!”

He’s red in the face now, his lips pulled back in blatant rage as he yells at her.

“You have no idea how lucky you have it! I could have locked you up in the westward tower, I could have ordered you into my bed _every_ night, could have had you dragged in, kicking and screaming as I had my way with you! I could have kept you chained up in there until you were good and pregnant. I could have done whatever the _fuck_ I wanted with you and I would have been applauded for my heavy-handed approach!” He’s ranting now, his voice echoing off the walls as he continues his tirade.

“But no! I _tried_ to be merciful with you! I _tried_ to grant you lenience and patience, hoping you might somehow, some day come to your senses and realize what a gift I had bestowed upon you when I agreed to marry you!” He wipes his mouth and scratches at his silver beard before tugging at his collar in irritation.

“You’ve forced me to endure years of speculation from the entire Kingdom over your poor attitude! To put up with endless rumors over the cause for your incessant pouting!”

He starts pounding on the table as he loses what little was left of his temper, his fury breaking from him in a roar that makes her stomach drop with a twinge of fear even as her own temper boils up, up, _up_.

“I’ve put up with thirteen uninterrupted years of total contempt and disdain from you! All while you’ve never shown a _single ounce_ of gratitude for the life of privilege that _I_ have given you. You owe me, Regina - I have given you EVERYTHING that you have! So tell me, woman! _WHAT HAVE YOU GIVEN YOUR KING IN RETURN???_ ”

Regina is on fire with the indignation she feels inside. Leopold is full of lies - they both know he despises her simply for existing in the space he had reserved solely for his beloved Eva. That he has resented her, belittled her, continuously punished her - every second of every day - simply for the fact that she will never be the woman he loved.

How dare he insinuate he’s been a saint for the last thirteen years? How dare he pretend he is some doting husband who gives one flying _fuck_ about her wellbeing?

And if anyone is to credit for this life Regina leads, it is most certainly her mother.

Regina has been obstinately holding his gaze, her back perfectly straight, fire blazing in her eyes, and her chin lifted high in arrogant outrage as she stares at him, barely holding herself back from screaming with violent, uncontrollable fury.

She thinks of his question, _What have you given your King?_ and she’s about to shove back her chair from the table and positively shriek the word, “ _Everything!”_ in response.

She’s about to inform him of exactly how he stole her youth and her innocence, how he obliterated her future, and destroyed her dreams of ever having a family of her own.

She’s about to point this dagger right in his round face and tell him how he’s _ruined_ her, how he’s taken everything she once held dear, how he’s blackened and scarred her heart with so much self-loathing and resentment that she will _never_ be able to repair it.

She’s about to, she is one fucking second away from it - but then… she doesn’t.

Because just as she starts to move, realization strikes her, and at the last instant, she glances down at her lap. She stares at her hands in shock, furrows her brow and just _stares,_ because she is tightly clutching a silver dagger in her palm, and she… has no idea where she got it from.

In fact, she could have sworn she hadn’t moved her hands at all, that she had folded them securely in her lap _specifically_ so she did not do something stupid, something treasonous, like waving a pointy object in the face of the King.

The discovery of the dagger jars her, makes her hesitate, and when Leopold chucks his napkin in her face from clear across the table and barks, “ANSWER ME!” she pauses, and instead of screaming how he took everything from her, she simply mutters, “Nothing,” while continuing to stare in bewilderment at the silver dagger - which somehow has _her monogram on it -_ gleaming at her beneath the tablecloth.

“That’s right, _nothing!_ ” Leopold snaps. “So you had better consider that the next time you even _think_ about taking that wretched little potion of yours! You need to make me some heirs, Regina! I AM OUT OF PATIENCE!”

She brings her head up and scowls at him, but Leopold misses it, because he has already turned and is speaking with the _other six guests_ seated at the breakfast table, who are more than happy to entertain his discussion about an upcoming hunt he intends to partake in.

Regina immediately stands and leaves the breakfast hall, her strides long and head ducked, her fingers still wrapped steadfastly - _menacingly_ \- around the mysterious dagger she had nearly threatened her husband with.

It’s humiliating enough to have this conversation at all, to know that her mother tattled on her, and that she will have to be extremely wary of them tampering with her potions. But to have this discussion in front of other people, to deprive her of the privacy of a closed door…

Well, she should not have expected anything more from her husband; she should not have expected him to be civilized, or to respect her in any sort of way. She is aware that he doesn’t care about her - he _never_ has - and she cannot describe how much she hates him for it.

But there is nothing, _nothing,_ that she hates more than how he talks about their potential children as if they are objects, as if they are nothing more than possessions that he wants her to create for him. It’s as if any children she might bear would be his and _his_ alone, as if they would be property that he would immediately own all the rights to, the very second they took their first breath. The thought makes her sick.

It’s why she has thwarted his attempts for so long, why she has resisted any and everything about the idea. Regina loves children, she knows their value and she treasures them more than anything in this realm. Her time raising Snow showed her how much light and love children bring into the world, how their innocence and naivety can provide hope, even when all seems lost.

At one point, before her heart was ruined, before she became what she is now, she even thought that she could be a good mother. She genuinely believed that she could have loved her children, that she could have provided them with the nurturing, compassion, and patience that a mother is supposed to. She could have even taught them how to be all the things she could never be, she could have taught them to be like Snow - kind, and sweet, and _good_.

If only she had the chance.

But Regina knows, with every fiber of her being, that even if her heart was up to it, if she could somehow separate herself from the Evil Queen and become the mother she always hoped she could be, Leopold will never let that happen. He will snatch her children out of her arms the second he lays eyes on them, he will separate her from them _for the greater good,_ and then he will send her babies off to boarding schools under the guise of _keeping them safe_. Regina knows she will never know her own children, that Leopold will use them as leverage against her, that he will manipulate them just to make her suffer, to punish her, and _this_ is why she refuses to give him the heirs he so craves.

She _will not_ bear his children just to appease his power-hungry ego. She _will not_ bring babies into this world only to be told she can never know them, that she can never be with them; where the only love she can ever give them is from a distance. Snow isn’t even hers and it’s ripping her apart to be kept away from her.

So let Leopold do his worst. Let him chain her up in his room. Let him take her, fuck her, abuse her for every minute of every day for the rest of his natural life. She really doesn’t care what he does to her, so long as she continues to deny him what he wants most. Two can play at this game, and if she must, if he pushes her far enough, she will do whatever it takes to deprive him of his precious _heirs_.

From the dining hall, Regina heads directly toward the castle library. Now that her mother _and_ Leopold know that she’s been using potions to prevent her pregnancy, there’s a book - an old grimoire hidden high up on the dusty shelves at the very back - that she needs to review. If her memory serves her right, the last time she read the book it had offered some other ideas about altering her fertility. She remembers that some of the potions were rather intriguing, while others were horrifically permanent, but regardless, seeing how desperate Leopold already is, she wants to be sure she knows every single avenue available to her, just in case he backs her into a corner. Her mother has already tried to swap out her fertility potion on her, and with both pairs of eyes on her now, it only complicates the situation further.

Gods. What a fucking mess.

She’s walking fast, lost in her thoughts about what she should do, when out of nowhere, she’s grabbed hard around the bicep and yanked into a nearby alcove.

His face is shrouded by his hood, only the hard-cut, masculine line of his scruffy jaw is visible, but when the scent of forest hits her nose, she knows it’s her Thief. And, as he backs her up against the wall, presses his larger body flush against hers, and bows his head to whisper in her ear, he leaves absolutely no room for confusion.

“ _Blimey_ , you’re looking so bloody gorgeous, Regina. I couldn’t help but steal you for a kiss.”

His lips are against hers then, hot and insistent, but she’s still nerve-wracked from her confrontation with Leopold, and she’s not at all in the mood for it. With a force that is _much_ harder than necessary she shoves him away, scowling in annoyance when he chuckles quietly and asks her, with sarcasm practically dripping from his tone, “Missed me that much, have you?”

“Have some respect,” she complains nastily, struggling to keep both her voice, _and_ her temper, down. “I’m not some barmaid you can manhandle, that you can just go stealing kisses from whenever, _wherever_ you want, you know.”

Her irritable tone doesn’t affect him though, he just smiles from under his hood and shrugs. “You knew I was a thief when you met me.”

She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Were you planning to stick me with that?” He motions to the dagger still clutched in her hand and whispers, “Or is this show and tell?”

“I…” she huffs out a frustrated sigh and shakes her head as she murmurs back to him, “No, I, I forgot I had it.”

“May I?” he asks for the dagger and she hands it over, not caring what he does with it, because in the next second he’s tugging her hands up around his neck and gathering her into his arms like they do this every day. She goes willingly this time, fits her body against his and breathes in deeply, relaxing in his warm embrace. Robin is like a balm to her, so soothing against her charred, burned, and battered heart - and she’s sorry she shoved him away the first time. She just wasn’t ready for it – even though it’s been over a month now, she’s still not used to his affectionate touches.

“See? You _did_ miss me,” he snickers against her cheek, presses a chaste kiss to it and nuzzles his nose against her.

It takes everything in her not to laugh. He’s much too cocky for his own good.

“Impossible,” she argues, but she tightens her grip around his neck anyway. “It’s only been a few hours since I’ve seen you.”

“A few hours too long.”

Something inside of her melts with the sincerity of his words, and she makes the decision to ignore the plethora of alarm bells ringing in her head, all of which are telling her that she’s letting him get too close to her, that this is too much too fast, that they could get caught at any second.

At least regarding the last concern, there is a suit of armor in front of them that is partially blocking them from view, and she’s dressed in navy blue today, a good color for blending into the dark. But still, anyone passing by who looks closely into the shadows might notice them, and there would be no mistaking the way that the two figures are so obviously wrapped up in a lover’s embrace.

This is dangerous. Dangerous and stupid in _so_ many ways.

And she’ll deal with it. She will.

_Later._

His hands run up and down her back, then one moves further to cup the back of her head as he wraps his other arm more tightly around her waist. “D’you know, you’re terribly tense - what’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I…” she starts, but his hand at her neck starts to knead softly, and for a moment, she simply leans into it and enjoys his comforting touch. “It was –”

The sudden, incoming sound of footsteps sprinting down the corridor interrupts her, and before she can react, Robin tucks her protectively into him, wraps his cloak around her and discretely shifts them further behind the suit of armor. As the footsteps approach, he holds absolutely still against her, his arms tight around her body, his breathing synchronized with hers.

It all turns out to be unnecessary - the footsteps fly by them without hesitation and continue down the corridor without incident - but their moment of intimacy has been broken, and Regina cringes at the vulnerable display she almost put on.

With a sigh against the top of her head, Robin relaxes his hold on her, and regret immediately seeps in. She thinks about who she is, where she was headed, and what she was doing, and she rolls her eyes at her foolishness.

“I have to go,” she whispers, shakes her head, and tries to pull away, but he doesn’t let go as she expects.

“Wait, not just yet,” he whispers, then teases, “Not without that kiss.”

She stops pulling away from him, but begrudgingly mutters, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Maybe someday,” his dimples flash when he smiles, then licks his lips, bites the bottom one and drops his eyes to her own lips. “But something tells me today is just not that day.”

She cannot stop from smiling back at him - she blushes, and her stomach fills with butterflies as her hands smooth over his chest. She cups his face, scratches her fingers lightly through his short stubble and - _gods_ \- she can’t deny that she wants his mouth on hers. She wants his lips and his tongue pressing against her, all over her. He is nothing short of captivating, a perfect distraction, so _damn_ handsome, and the way he makes her feel when they’re together is like nothing she has ever felt before.

She tugs his head down and kisses him, once, twice, then goes up on her tiptoes as she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him with even more ardor. Time grinds to a halt around her and she allows herself to get completely swept away by the passion, her heart pounding faster with every stroke of his tongue against hers.

Robin’s hands start at her ribs, but as they kiss he slides them down to her waist, his grip tightening as he steps into her and then, without warning, he suddenly lifts her right off her feet, trapping her between the wall and his body. She gasps but she’s not frightened - not in the slightest. She wants more, wants him to put his hands all over her, to caress her breasts where her nipples have pebbled into hard tips, to rub against her core where heat is rapidly building, but she doesn’t know how to voice her request without sounding needy.

Thankfully, he seems to know this, because he lets her slide tantalizingly down against his body, lets her regain her feet, and then he’s fitting his hips snug between her thighs. He’s got her pinned just perfectly now - _ohhh_ \- he’s pressing up against all the places she wants him. As their mouths meet again and again, his hips grind against her center, his chest presses flush against hers, her body arches against him and she wishes he would slip his hand up her skirt and give her a release, even though she knows that’s absolutely out of the question.

Well… probably.

The longer they continue, the more breathless she becomes, the more careless too - little gasps and pants of pleasure rasping out from low in her throat - but somehow she feels safe in the shadows like this, she feels _free_. She loves the feel of him, the way his soft stubble scrapes lightly against her chin and cheek, the way his hardness presses against her hip. She wishes he was inside of her but knows he cannot be - not yet, _certainly not right now_ \- and she keeps running her fingers through his hair as she nips and bites at his lips, sucks eagerly on his tongue and, in a rare occurrence, finds herself very much wanting to put her mouth on another part of his anatomy.

She swears that this is the culmination of every illicit teenage rendezvous she was robbed of, that it must be fate finally providing reimbursement for all the times she was supposed to meet with Daniel in the hayloft and her mother forced her to miss it, or perhaps it’s restitution for the life sentence of mediocrity she was given when she was betrothed to Leopold. Either way, she finds it incredibly ironic that her Thief is the one to deliver her something she always felt had been stolen from her.

He raises his hand to stroke her cheek, and when his index finger traces the curve of her bottom lip, it presents her with an opportunity she didn’t realize she was waiting for. She has this image in her head now where she can see herself taking his thick length in her mouth, where she can almost taste the saltiness, can feel the smooth, hot skin of him sliding against her tongue, and her lips part automatically to press a slow kiss to the pad of his finger as she imagines doing exactly that.

When he doesn’t object, she leans forward just enough to suck softly on the very tip of his finger, letting her imagination run as she slides her lips over his skin, just past his nail before slowly pulling all the way back. She glances up at him through her lashes to gauge his reaction and he looks completely awestruck, so she does it again - this time letting her tongue play along the underside of his finger, teasing against the pad as she sucks softly to his first knuckle and back, swirling around the tip before finally releasing him.

Robin moans quietly, and she wants the hot, hard length of him in her mouth - she wants him _bad_.

They haven’t done that yet, but it’s not like she hasn’t given him pleasure. She’s used her hands, he’s fucked her thighs, they’ve done an exceptional amount of grinding on one another, but he hasn’t pushed for this, hasn’t asked her to take him in her mouth, and she hasn’t volunteered to do it. It’s something she’s done before - because she’s married, and _of course she has -_ but she’s never wanted to do it, it’s always been… a responsibility. She’s never experienced it _this way,_ and _damn_ , suddenly, she thinks she very much wants to.

Regina moves his hand to gently suck the tip of his middle finger, then the tip of his ring finger before going back to the middle and sliding her lips down to tease the sensitive pad. As she does it, Robin tips his head forward and huffs out a hot breath, his hips rock against her and she can feel how hard and insistent he is as he presses against her thigh.

“That something you might like?” he murmurs, as if he’s just read her thoughts. “You think you might like taking me in your mouth?”

She starts sucking a little harder to show her agreement, and slips his finger further between her lips.

His voice is gravelly and low when he tells her, _that’s brilliant_ , while his other hand smooths over her hip, gives her ass a squeeze, and then he dips down to fiddle with her skirt. In the next instant, he has his hand beneath it, he’s shifting her underwear to the side, and - _ohhh_ \- he’s pressing his fingers right up against her clit.

_Gods._

“Wet for me already,” he chuckles quietly, and she nips at his finger, drags her teeth lightly over him as his other fingers run through her slick slit, sending tingling pleasure to flutter through her.

“Careful now,” he gently warns, pressing his index finger to her mouth, right next to his middle one, and waiting until she parts her lips for him before nudging it inside. “That’s it, take a bit more.”

The addition of his other finger sliding between her lips is such a change from having just the one - is such a fullness that she closes her eyes to savor it while a little moan hums from her chest. She knows his cock is thicker than this, _much_ thicker, but oh, this is wonderful; the feeling of taking him in, of running her tongue along the ridge between his fingers, across the blunt, slightly calloused tips and tasting the salt of his skin - _ohhh, yes_ , this is a lovely start.

“Gods, you’re bloody perfect,” his breath is ghosting against her ear, his fingers sliding easily through her folds, spreading the liberal wetness she has made for him. “Go on, give them a good suck.”

Her stomach twists with excitement, she takes in a deep breath through her nose, and with his encouragement, increases the suction on his fingers. She works her mouth up and down a few times, envisioning sucking hard on the head of his cock, how she might run her tongue along him and taste his pre-cum, thinks of the way his round, smooth tip would slip between her lips - _fuck_ \- she wishes she could do that, could experience that right now.

“That’s so good, Regina, _gods yes_ , suck just like that.” He starts to swirl his other fingers over her clit, pressing against the little swollen bud and working it smoothly, and she gasps, pulls her head up and tips it back against the stone wall as all the air rushes out of her lungs.

“Tell me,” he ducks his head to kiss along the column of her neck. “What’re you thinking of when you suck on my fingers like that?”

She smirks at the ceiling and bites her lip, reaches between them to palm him through his trousers and whispers, “ _This_.”

“You want to suck my cock, do you?” he rumbles, nipping and licking just above the neckline of her dress, “Is that what’s got you so wet for me?”

Her clit is pulsing beneath his busy fingers, her toes curling in her heels when she manages to reply with a quiet, “Mmhmm.”

“Well, if you want something, if you _need_ something,” he drops his head down and runs his tongue through her cleavage, and she shivers. “All you’ve got to do is ask.”

His fingers trail down her neck, then slip around to her back, where he starts loosening the upper ties of her corset.

Her mind screams at her to stop, warns that they cannot do this - _not here, not now!_ \- but - _oh shit_ \- she just can’t seem to find the right words to tell him that.

“Robin, we’re…” she can feel her arousal seep from her to coat his fingers, and she has to bite back a moan, “We’re in the corridor.”

He pulls the top three laces out in quick succession, then drops his head and, with the help of his hand, he cups each of her breasts and guides them up and out of the top of the garment.

_Oh fuck._

“We… the…corridor…” she rasps, losing her breath as he suckles her right nipple, then her left, gently using his teeth to tug and pinch each of them in turn, and she has to put her own hand over her mouth to quiet herself.

“So what?”

Not trusting her voice or her decision-making skills at this point - not when he’s so incredibly good at making her want _more -_ in lieu of a response, she sinks her teeth into the meat of her palm as a desperate attempt at snapping herself out of this lustful daze. Unfortunately, it has the opposite effect - it causes her to notice that her mouth feels oddly empty now without his fingers in it - so she grabs for his hand instead, pulls it back up and starts kissing the very tips of his fingers again, hoping he’ll give them back to her. She wants to do this for real - _gods,_ she thinks it could be, _would_ be good, _so good_ \- to feel him hard and hot against her tongue, but for as turned on as she is, she’s not quite ready to get on her knees for him, and she’s definitely not about to do it right here in the hallway.

Robin slips two of his fingers back into her mouth with a soft, but amused, “Did you know your lips are heaven?” before he groans quietly against her breasts and rubs his thick fingers deeper through her folds. One plays at her entrance, swirls around and around the sensitive edge until her hips are moving on their own, jutting forward and trying to sink down on him, but he doesn’t give in – just teases and teases her, until she’s nearly whining with how badly she wants him inside of her.

He doesn’t rush it though, he spends time sucking forcefully on each of her nipples, turning them into little pebbled peaks that grow cool in the corridor air, which he soothes with the hot, wet flick and swirl of his tongue. His fingers are a tease - he keeps switching between rubbing her clit and teasing at her entrance until she’s good and riled, her breaths choppy and legs starting to shake with impending release, then he straightens up and brings his face back in close, presses his lips to her ear and whispers, “Make sure you keep your gorgeous mouth busy while I make you come now, yeah?”

She nods as he starts to work her clit with concentrated effort, his fingers consistent and sure, his whole body still pressed in close to brace her against the wall.

“Christ, you're _so wet_ ,” he presses a kiss to her temple as his fingers move faster, _faster_ over her clit. His black tunic brushes against her breasts with every breath she takes - just enough to keep her nipples tight and aching - and she sucks hard on his fingertips, trying to return some of the pleasure that he’s so successfully giving to her.

“Remember,” he whispers, “when we’re together like this, you can have whatever you want, Regina.”

She pulls his fingers from his mouth to ask, “What-ever I w-ant?” and though her breaths are unsteady, her sentence broken, he nods in affirmation.

“I’ll give you anything - just ask - if you want it, it’s yours.”

She sucks on his fingers again, flicks at the tips with her tongue, then slides them back inside her mouth so she can run her tongue up the underside of his middle finger.

“Do you want to suck my cock, Regina?” his voice is low, barely a breath, but _oh,_ how it makes her clench, makes her wish they were somewhere safer.

She squirms against him, the heat in her core is building rapidly, her inner muscles already _so tight_ , that familiar pleasurable thrum intensifying by the second.

“Next time we’re together, you can have it,” he assures. “I’ll rub you off while you do it, just like this." Robin nips at the corner of her jaw as she drags her teeth over the pads of his fingers in excitement. “Or you can sit on my face,” he offers. “It would be my pleasure to eat your hot little cunt while you suck on me.” He slips his fingers from her mouth to lightly tug down on her bottom lip, and, taking his cue, she opens her mouth wider for him.

"Do you think you can fit me?" He asks, his fingers flickering across her clit and dragging his other fingers along the perfect bottom row of her teeth. "Think you can be a good girl and take all of me in your mouth?"

" _Yes_ ," she rasps, "I, I can. I will." She shamelessly rolls her hips as she chases the release that’s building quickly now - spiraling, tightening - and gods, all she can think is that this pleasure her brings her, this way he turns her on and gets her off is _fucking addictive_.

"You're so good, Regina, _fuck_ ," he whispers approvingly, kissing her cheek, her jaw. "You’d suck me off for ages, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t be able to get enough.”

She nods whole-heartedly.

“Would you let me come in your mouth?”

She nods again.

“Would you swallow for me, too?"

She looks up through her lashes, presses frantic kisses to his fingertips and agrees, "Yes, _gods_ \- I want that, want it so much." Her legs start to shake, and she wraps her fingers tightly around the back of his neck, clings to him as she softly whines, "Stop teasing, Thief, I’m so close - _fuck_ \- make me come, Robin, please, _please_ make me come."

“I’m going to,” he promises, his fingers flurrying across her clit as she trembles against him, his other hand dropping to cup her breast, to squeeze and pinch her nipple and - _oh,_ that’s it, that’s exactly what she needs.

“Do you even know how bloody extraordinary you are?” he rumbles, “Talking about how you want to suck my cock, letting me kiss you, touch you, slip my hand between your gorgeous thighs so I can rub you off, right here in the corridor?”

She moans at the mention of getting caught - she’d forgotten where they were, and the realization sends her adrenaline soaring, has awareness prickling across her skin like sparklers and causing her arousal to jump up-up- _up!_ until she’s teetering right on the edge of orgasm.

“Anyone could walk right up to us,” he murmurs, his fingers flying over her clit, the wet sounds of her desire loud and lewd. She ducks her head down, presses her forehead against the side of his neck as the inner muscles of her core start to tremor. “But I don’t care who’s watching, as long as you don’t tell me to stop, you can be sure that I’ll get you off no matter what.”

Regina presses her mouth to his neck and sucks on his hot, salty skin, lets herself fall into the overwhelming, pleasurable spasms that are now starting to flutter inside of her. Oh, _oh gods_ , she’s about to, she’s - fuck, _fuck-fuck-fuck–_

“And you’d love it, wouldn’t you? You’d tell me to keep going, you'd want me to rub your pretty little clit until you came all over my fingers, just like you are now, isn’t that right?"

Her clit pulses sharply with every sweeping touch against it, and she scrunches her eyes shut as she wraps one arm around his waist for support, her fingers clenching in the leather of his tunic, twisting sharply - _oh, mmm -_ any second - _fuck, any second–_

"You’re dripping for me, _Christ_.”

Regina nods and whines desperately against his neck - _so-close-so-close-so-close!_

“I've got you, that’s right, let go now," he coaxes, kissing her cheek once, twice. "You’re such a good girl. Come for me, darling, and I’ll fill that tight little cunt for you, I’ll make you nice and full, just how you like, just how you _need_.”

With a few more quick swirls on her clit, she finally comes, that deep ache in her core shatters into pure, white-hot pleasure that radiates through her, and she releases a harsh, muffled whimper against his neck, sinking her teeth into his skin as her hips frantically jump beneath the swift, relentless movements of his fingers. Wetness positively floods his hand, makes his fingers slip, and slide, and lose their perfect positioning, but _gods_ , that's just fine by her, because just like he promised, he slides two, _three,_ thick fingers deep inside of her, and - _fuck -_ she is _so full_ \- and then he starts to _thrust them -_ and it’s perfection.

She clenches around him, moaning quietly while his thumb coasts steadily across her clit, his fingers gently thrusting, rubbing her just right, just enough to make her world continue to burst into flashes of bright, glittering starlight. Nothing else matters except the waves of pleasure that crash over her, and she succumbs to it, lets him drag it on, and on, and _on,_ while she simply holds onto her Thief, depending on him to keep her steady until he determines she’s had enough.

 _Fuck,_ how she loves hi- _this._ She loves _this._

When her body finally calms down and she catches her breath, she notices that he’s moving - his hands infinitely gentle as he goes about righting her corset, his lips pressing slow and sweet kisses to her breasts as he situates her, handling her so, _so_ carefully. The way he touches her is almost like he values her, like she is the most important thing in the world to him, and idly, she wonders how he learned to touch a woman like this.

When he gets her laces done up, she notices that while he has repositioned them slightly, he hasn’t returned even an inch of personal space. No, he’s still leaning into her, with one arm wrapped around her waist now, and the other up around her shoulders to keep her close. His breaths are quick and warm against her, his eyes hooded, a small smile tilting up his lips as he watches her. He looks blissed out, looks happy (but not smug), looks like _he’s_ the one who just got off, when she can feel that he didn’t, and there’s just something about the way he looks so satisfied by _her_ satisfaction, that makes her like him even more.

She puts her hands on his face and strokes lightly along his jaw as her heartbeat settles, sharing in his body heat, and even though they’re standing up, there isn’t a bed or a chaise in sight, it feels like they’re cuddling, hidden from the world by the simple barrier of his cloak.

She sighs and feels the curve of his lips against hers before she actually pulls back far enough to see his deep dimpled smile fully form.

“Well,” she smiles almost shyly, “That was...” Regina doesn’t finish her sentence, unable to think of the appropriate phrase to describe how good he just made her feel.

“Mm, I quite agree,” he teases, his eyes trained on hers as he ducks down to kiss her and adds, “My darling, you are incredible.”

Her smile starts to grow, she even starts to blush at his compliment, and then… she suddenly feels _very_ claustrophobic.

She doesn’t like the way he phrased that, the way he used the word _my,_ because she doesn’t belong to him, she _can’t_. Regardless of how much she likes him, of how well they get along, even if she wanted to be with him, which she _does not_ , she already has one unsolicited gold ring wrapped around her finger, there simply isn’t room for anything more. And although she’s never done this before, has never had an affair of any kind, she’s fairly certain that Leopold does not call the plethora of other women he routinely shares his bed with, “my darling.”

“I, I um...” she stammers, stiffens in his arms and breaks away from him under the guise of brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. “I have to go.”

“Alright, yeah.” Without question, Robin steps back and immediately releases her, though when she finally manages to look at him, there is a deep furrow in his brow.

“I have things to do, you know,” she huffs, getting more upset by the second. “Important things. I can’t just step into the nearest shadow for a quick fuck whenever _you_ feel like it.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, looks like he wants to say something in response to her unfair statement, but instead he simply nods and states, “I understand.” He shifts a little awkwardly and tries to discreetly adjust himself, and she realizes that while she’s just come for the second time today, he has once again gone without.

Well, that’s… that’s unfortunate. But it’s not her fault they just did _this_ in the corridor, or that he insisted on going down on her _one last time_ twenty minutes before she was supposed to be at breakfast this morning.

“No, you don’t understand,” her face feels hot, her temper is rising, though she’s not exactly sure who or what she’s so upset about. She just knows that her heart is pounding, and her hands are shaking, and she’s suddenly just _so-fucking-angry_.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asks, looking openly apologetic, like she has already chastised him, and it _infuriates_ her. How dare he be sorry before he even knows what he’s done?!

“See?” she snaps. “You don’t understand anything. You don’t have a fucking clue. You don’t know me, you don’t know _shit._ Now get out of my way.”

As she shoves past him, he surprises her - uses only his words to catch her attention and to stop her in her tracks as he asks quietly, “That’s it then? That’s really how you want to leave this conversation?”

“Of course it is,” she growls, turning her head to glare at him. “Need I remind you that I don’t answer to the likes of _you?_ I’m not your wife, I’m not your whore, and I’m not some prized possession you can steal. Regardless of what you may think, I don’t belong to you, _Thief -_ I never will. And I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m aware that you are very busy,” she can see she has ruffled him, how the edges of his eyes have narrowed and the corners of his jaw are set, as if he is _very_ concerned by her comments. “But Regina –”

“It’s _Your Majesty –_ ”

“Seriously?” his tone is annoyed but his eyes are pleading, and it only irks her more.

“Yes, _seriously,_ ” she snaps.

Robin shakes his head and holds up his hands in surrender.

“Alright, alright, just… hold on a minute,” he takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair. “Please, just… talk with me. Tell me what’s troubling you. What have I done that’s upset you this way? Because believe me, whatever it is, I’ll make it right, I promise. I never intended to hurt you, just tell me what I’ve done.”

_Why does he have to be so fucking nice?_

“Shut up!” She can’t handle any more of his sweet words.

She can’t, or she might tell him how she _wants_ to be his, how she’d _kill_ to be his, how she hates the fact that she will not, cannot ever be _his darling._

“Shut up before I call the guards.”

“What?” he looks completely shocked. “Why on earth would you –”

“Have you forgotten who I am?” she warns, drawing herself up to her full height and, giving him her most menacing glare, she adds, “I am the Queen, the _Evil Queen,_ and if you continue this insolence, I can be a far greater nightmare than you can imagine.”

He’s frowning now, his blue eyes narrowed with confusion. “Why are you acting like this–”

“I don’t owe you an explanation, you pathetic peasant! I’ll do as I please!”

“Of course you’ll do as you please, I’d never try to–”

She stomps - literally stomps - her foot and barks, “Be silent or I’ll have your head!”

“Fine!” he huffs. “Go on then!”

Robin moves so that they’re facing each other once more and holds out his wrists as if he expects her to shackle him. “If that’s what you really want, Your Majesty, go on, send me back to the dungeon. Break me on the rack, dunk me in the river, chop off my head. Do whatever it is that you think you need to do.”

But Regina says nothing, does nothing.

Of course she isn’t going to call the guards, of course she isn’t going to have him tortured. But she’s confused, and furious, and brimming with hostility, and she doesn’t know how to curb these tempestuous feelings. After the fight with her husband and the mysterious, sudden appearance of the silver dagger this morning, she can’t deal with what is happening right now.

She has so many conflicting emotions about Robin. She wants him, wants to see more of him, wants to keep him close to her, to get closer, closer, _closer._ But at the same time, he is _far too close,_ he is taking too many liberties with her, he’s gotten too comfortable, she can see it in his eyes, he’s falling for her and he can’t, _they can’t_ –

Robin cautiously steps up to her, picks up her left hand, and places it on his chest, right over his heart. He covers her hand with his, and she can feel his pulse beating steady and strong beneath her palm and - _oh gods, please_ \- don’t do this, Robin, please, _please don’t._

“Regina,” he says quietly, calmly, in that relentlessly patient voice of his. “Please talk to me. Let me make this right.”

She grits her teeth, tips up her chin, and firmly tells him, “ _No._ ”

But Robin, _damn him,_ he just smiles softly, as if he understands her, and says, “I think… I think there’s something good here between us. I think there’s something _more_.” He rubs his hand over the top of hers and gives her a reassuring smile, but when she simply glares at him, vibrating with repressed violence, his expression grows more intense.

“I know this has all come on a bit fast, and I get that these feelings, well, they’re a bit overwhelming, aren’t they? But I’m not asking you to change anything, I’m not asking you for more. I know we can’t do that.”

“We can’t,” she repeats, her eyes burning _._ She won’t cry. She _will not._ “We _can’t_.”

Robin nods as if he’s in total agreement, as if she’s making perfect sense.

“I’m just asking you to talk to me, to tell me what I’ve done that’s got you so wound up, because locking me up, or shutting me out, or blowing up and storming off in a snit right now isn’t going to solve anything. It’s not going to change the way we feel. I’m not afraid of you, Regina, I–”

And that’s when she slaps him.

It makes a shockingly loud _crack!_ that echoes down the corridor as her open palm connects with his cheek. They both freeze, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps, but thankfully, silence is all that greets them.

She instantly regrets it, is completely ashamed of herself for striking him, cannot believe that she just raised her hand to him _again_ , and she braces herself for his rejection. This _must_ be the final straw. There is no reason for him to continue to put up with her.

Gods, she is just like her mother.

But then he grits out, “ _That_ doesn’t solve anything either,” as he squints his left eye against the stinging pain.

And when he just stands there, continuing to hold her hand over his heart, patiently waiting for her to tell him what’s wrong - not pushing, not demanding, not forcing her _at all -_ she nearly breaks down over how _good_ he is.

She does not deserve him.

Regina doesn’t know what to say. She is too shaken by what’s happening between them - it’s too much, _too fast_ , and she can’t do this - she _cannot._ She told him right from the start that they can’t be anything more, that what they are doing is stupid, that it’s going to get them killed. She can’t figure out what he’s doing, or _why_ he’s doing it, or what he thinks he’ll get out of doing this with her.

How can he say he wants nothing more when he so obviously does - when he’s standing here, looking at her like, like, _like that?_ She may not understand what that look means, but she sure as hell knows it doesn’t mean he wants _nothing_.

It’s been a long time since either of them has spoken, the silence has dragged on and on since she slapped him, and he’s losing his nerve. She can see it happening - can see his frown lines appearing, the arches of his brow deepening - her persistent rejection is making him question what he thought he knew.

But then he challenges, “Tell me that I’m wrong about us,” and his tone isn’t even aggressive, it’s fucking _curious_ , as if he truly wants to know, and that just makes it _worse,_ makes her want to keep him so much more. “Tell me that you haven’t wondered – not even once - what it might be like if this all just worked out.”

She lies without hesitation, “I’ve never wondered.”

“No?”

“Never,” she says firmly, her eyes glued to his. “Not. Once.”

She hates herself, fucking hates how she’s hurting him on purpose, but she can’t seem to help it. She wants to stop this terrible behavior, she wants to listen to him, to talk to him, to be good, and nice, and decent to him, but she doesn’t know _how_. She’s never fought down these dark impulses before, not on her own, not without fear forcing her to do so.

_What the hell is wrong with her?_

Robin starts to look uncertain as he tells her, “Alright then. Well, uh, you know that all you’ve got to do is say the word - tell me you want to _stop,_ and we’ll stop all of this _._ Say it, and I’ll go - I’ll never touch you, I’ll never approach you, I’ll never so much as smile in your general direction again, not for as long as I live. You’re in control here, Regina. You always have been, and what happens next is up to you.”

“How dare you pretend this is so easy for me,” she snarls nastily. “ _You_ can just walk right out of here, _you_ can go back to your pathetic little life in the forest, doing god knows what, with god knows who. _I’m_ the one who has to stay here. _I’m_ the one in a cage, remember?”

She glares at him for an endless moment, her heart slamming against her ribs, the fingers of her left hand pressing into his chest, her right palm still burning from the slap she gave him, eyes blazing and fear ripping through her like a wildfire.

“But you don’t have to be in this cage,” he says quietly, and her heart fucking _stops._ “I’ll-”

“Don’t say it,” she warns, “Don’t you dare.”

Robin nods, seeming to understand he has crossed a line, and instead, he tells her, “Regina, I can leave here in one of two ways today. I can go for a bit, and we can cool off, clear our heads, and try to talk this out another time. Or,” he licks his lips, and she swears he’s looking at her with so much love in his eyes that she would rather die than tell him to go. “I can simply leave _for good_.”

She doesn’t know why she does it. She doesn’t know what possesses her to wrap her other hand around the back of his neck, pull him in, and kiss him furiously, passionately, _madly_ in the middle of the fucking corridor, but she does it. She kisses him with every emotion that’s coursing through her veins - every beautiful feeling, every horrible one, just _everything._ She sucks hard at his lips, strokes her tongue along his, flicks and swirls, breathes in his breaths, savors the rasp of his stubble against her skin as she dives in again and again, and she can feel her hot tears streaming down her face as she kisses, and kisses, _and kisses him._

And she immediately regrets it.

Regina shoves him away, but he holds onto her hand and refuses to let go. Her heart shatters when she hears him desperately rasp - _No!_ \- as he tugs her back and kisses her again, tries to hold her close, tells her, _It’s alright, please just take a breath,_ but no - _fuck_ \- she can’t take a breath, she can’t do this with him, _they can’t!_

Panic tries to consume her, but she fights it, and she ends up fighting _him._ Regina shoves Robin away again, and this time he lets go, because she’s sobbing, and she can hear herself crying, pathetically begging him to, _Stop! Stop! Stop!_

And like he always does, Robin stops.

“Regina, please,” he says brokenly, and she can’t look at him, she _can’t._

“Please, don’t do this,” he pleads with her again, and his voice is shaking, it’s weak like she’s never heard him before. She finally looks at him and he looks _fractured,_ _shattered;_ he looks like he’s as heartbroken as she is over what’s happening.

And that’s when she realizes she’s ruining him, which seems much more like a task for the Evil Queen.

So she decides she better finish this quickly, she better get it over with, she better quit dragging it out and be done with it. The Queen has other things to do today.

She takes a deep, steadying breath, then another, stops these stupid tears from falling, and steels herself. Then she raises her chin and looks down her nose as she snaps, “ _Stop_.”

The Queen schools her features into perfect calmness, straightens her spine, squares her shoulders, and _yes -_ she can do this, she can do what needs to be done, once at for all. “ _Stop_ acting like a fool!” she snarls. “ _Stop_ wasting my time! _Stop_ coming back here, and stay the hell away from me, Thief!”

Robin looks... completely shocked.

“Regina, are you… are you telling me that this is it? That you want to _stop_ this for good? That it's... over?” he reaffirms quietly, fear laden in his voice, his brows raised as if he can’t believe what she just said.

And she has to do it, she just, she _has to._

She furiously, _forcefully -_ with every ounce of frustration she feels inside of her - screams back at him, “I SAID STOP!”

Regina's voice echoes all around them, carries down the corridor, and Robin’s pretty blue eyes - gods, she’s going to miss those eyes - go wide as he searches hers with this confused, totally crushed expression written all over his face, but she doesn’t give an inch.

They stare at each other for several long, agonizing seconds, but she refuses to back down, to rescind her vicious words, or to acknowledge in any way that she has just destroyed the best thing that has ever happened to her.

“I see,” his voice is hoarse, but there is no venom in it, only defeat as he speaks. “Well then, my apologies, Your Majesty, I –” his voice breaks, and as he clears his throat, his eyes drop to the floor. “It seems I made a mistake. I… won’t bother you again.”

He steps past her then without another word, without even looking at her again, and, suddenly panicked, she reaches for him, as if in some last-ditch effort to negate the vile things she’s just done.

But it’s not enough.

The rough wool of his cloak brushes past her fingers, and just like that, he is gone.


	17. Good Intentions

Robin knows that he really shouldn’t do this, he really shouldn’t break his own rules for the Queen yet again _._ He's aware that he should keep his distance; he should stay as far away from her as possible, especially now, considering how things suddenly came to a grinding halt between them. But then, he’s only doing this _because_ it’s over between them, and because his guilty conscience won’t let him rest until he returns what he’s taken. He might be a thief, but far too many people have stolen from her – he really doesn’t want to be one of them.

But it's not just that. If he’s being honest, he’s feeling confused as hell over what happened with Regina, and quite foolish over the way he fell so hard and fast for her. He doesn't know what came over him, how he let himself get so swept away, but there's a large part of him that feels like none of it was real, or rather, it _couldn't_ have been real. It all seems far too much like a fairytale, like a dream; it's like a wish his desperate, lonely heart made, and he's so broken up over the whole damn thing that he just doesn't know what to do with himself now that it's over.

Robin isn't the type of man who typically spends countless hours daydreaming about women; he's never been a bloke who made a habit of blowing off his mates so he could see his girl. But for the past month and change, that's exactly what he's done. He's used every opportunity, every excuse, and every disguise he could dream up; he’s risked three years’ worth of reconnaissance work for the Merry Men, all because he couldn’t say _no_ when Regina asked him to return to her.

He’s embarrassed about all the planning he went through to create scenario after scenario, just so they might spend a few breathless heartbeats together. He's ashamed of the hours he spent dreaming up ways that he might drag out his scheme with the Merry Men, so that he might prolong his work up at the castle and have an excuse to see her. He knows that he should never have gotten close to her, should never have let his guard down, and definitely should not have gone and caught feelings for her - but still, somehow he cannot find the proper amount of remorse for any of his actions.

He can’t.

And that’s frustrating as fuck.

He wants to be angry. He wants to be _furious_ , to feed off the hurt, the anger, and this terrible feeling of loss he feels inside, but every time he pictures Regina’s face and tries to associate her with all those feelings, he just _can’t._ All he can think of is those quiet moments they shared together, when she had managed to make him feel good, feel _whole_ in a way he hasn’t since he lost his family. He thinks of the way she looked when she was lying in his arms, all content, and calm, and sweet, with her dark chocolate eyes focused only on him, her hand on her chest like she bloody-well belonged there and… well, she made him feel important, she made him feel like, for the first time in a very long time, his decisions mattered. She made him feel like he had a purpose beyond this godforsaken plot that has completely taken over his life, and she made him wonder if perhaps there was something more in store for him than revenge and a pint of ale to wash it down with.

He’s spent the last week trying to find something about her, something about the time they shared that he didn’t like. He’s tried to find something, _anything_ he can hate, that he can use to disconnect himself from her completely, that he can use to sever his heartstrings from hers so that he will never want to hold her, or touch her, or kiss her again.

But he’s found nothing.

Sure, there are things about her that aren’t to his liking - that temper of hers can be quite nasty when she gets going, but he knows that’s not _her._ That’s her situation, her frustration, her fury at the world that’s bleeding out of her, and he can’t fault her for the way she explodes into fireworks when she finally has the chance. He’s seen the way that those closest to her treat her, the way she’s been beaten, the way she’s taken advantage of in every way possible, and that’s exactly why when she told him to get the hell out, to leave her alone, to _stop -_ that’s precisely what he did.

He did it because he _genuinely_ likes her, particularly the person she is beneath the mask of the rather psychotic Evil Queen, but to be honest, he even likes that version of her, too. To him, she’s utterly brilliant; she’s brimming with life, and pure energy, and so much love that he’s not sure anyone in this realm could really understand what she’d be capable of, if only she had the chance to show them. He did it because that’s what she said she wanted, because that’s what she said she preferred, and he’s not about to force her to do _anything_ \- no matter how much he may want her, or how willing he is to fight for her. If she doesn’t _want_ him to fight for her, well, there’s nothing he can do to make her.

He’s not exactly sure what he did wrong, but he’s spent hours agonizing over their final conversation, and from what he’s worked it out, it had quite a bit to do with the endearment of _my darling._ He remembers how she had changed when he said that, how after he opened his sodding mouth and used _my darling_ in place of something more formal, something like _my Queen_ , she had stiffened in his arms and started to act strange, and it upsets him that he made her feel that way. He only said it because it felt natural, it felt _right,_ and on some level he supposes he must’ve wanted her to know how he felt - he must’ve wanted her to know that _his_ heart belongs to _her_.

It’s frustrating that something he meant in innocence upset her so much, when he’s certain she’s been called _far_ worse (with intentions that were meant to wound), and he would take it back in an instant if he thought it would help, but it won’t. He knows her now, and even if she gave him a chance to explain he didn’t mean any harm when he called her that, she wouldn’t believe him anyway.

He knows her anger had something to do with thinking he considers her a possession, or a piece of property, which is really unfair, because in no way does he feel entitled to ownership of her, and for the life of him, he hasn’t got a clue why she’d think so little of him. He knows what it’s like to actually _be_ a piece of property. Indentured servitude taught him _exactly_ how many gold pieces he’s worth (it isn’t many), and he would never care to assume ownership of another soul. No one should be treated that way, and he would never have tried to cage her. Hell, he was the one trying to _free_ her.

The thing is, he feels very protective of her, and it’s paired with this intense affection that, after the broken way he feels following her rejection, makes it impossible to deny that he really, truly fell for her. These past few weeks his heart went and, without his permission, it pledged itself to her; it loudly declared it’s fealty to the one and only, _Regina_ , and he’s embarrassed how devastated he is over the fact that her heart didn’t do the same.

And, honestly, he’s a bit insulted that she didn’t even pause to give him the benefit of the doubt, that she took his innocent remark and managed to make him a villain with it, that she used it as ammunition to end their entire relationship in one fell swoop. She wouldn’t talk with him at all, wouldn’t even _try,_ and he’s a fool, because he thought he was someone she liked, someone she wanted around, someone that perhaps she was starting to care for too.

Boy was he wrong.

It’s not like he expected anything from her – he meant it when he said he wasn’t going to ask her for more. He _knows_ their limits and he’s not an arse, he wasn’t about to push her into anything she didn’t want. He’s well-aware of her issues with trust and he’s tried his very best to be sensitive to her needs, but gods, he’s got plenty of issues too. He’s far from perfect - he’s battling some serious demons that she won’t even let him tell her about - and there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that irks him more than being made to feel like he’s a piece of property that can be bought and sold, or in this case, _disposed of_ whenever she’d bloody-well like.

It’s too late to do anything about it now, but he really doesn’t know what the hell he was thinking, getting involved with her. She is the Queen, she’s married, and she’s made it clear that she’s _not_ interested in what he’s got to offer.

Shame on him for hoping she would.

He can admit that he’s been a fool with her, that he’s made many, many mistakes, and he intends to keep his promise. He will stay away from her, he won’t bother her, ever again.

But he’s still got business that he came to this castle to do, business that he _must_ finish, and he’s already delayed it for far too long.

The thing is, it’s taken him a long time to plot out this whole thing, and over the years it hasn’t been easy, nor has it been free. He’s had to travel to and from the castle dozens of times, has had to barter for information, has had to get castle staff to turn a blind eye. He’s had mountains of expenses to pay for, and as a thief it’s only made sense to use his special skill set to fund it.

He started out by nicking a few smaller items from some of the visiting Lords and Ladies to the castle. They had been easy targets, were surprisingly unaware to begin with and he had found that even when they did notice, they didn’t like to cause a fuss - especially when they might face the infamous temper of the Evil Queen. So they typically attributed any losses to the hazards of traveling, or they flat out assumed they’d left the missing items at home, and it had been almost laughably easy to take from them.

After that had been successful for quite some time, Robin had moved on to other targets. He’d wanted to test the waters a bit, see what he could get away with since he was spending so much time learning the ins and outs of the castle. So he’d swiped a pair of golden cufflinks from the King, then a few pairs of his spectacles, and then old Leo’s favorite ascot, and when that all went unnoticed for a solid six months, he’d ventured to the Queen's room and looted a bracelet that he’d found while rifling through one of the drawers in her writing desk.

It seemed unassuming at the time - it was just a thin silver bangle bracelet, where the center had been twisted into a rather pretty heart, within which was the shape of a horse head. Upon further inspection he found the word, “Nina” engraved on the inner side of the band, but that didn’t ring any bells, and no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he couldn’t come up with anyone he’d ever heard of by that name at the castle. Since Regina hadn’t bothered to store the item properly with the rest of her jewelry, he’d deemed it a good one to take to test her, to see if she’d notice that something so random was removed from her possession.

And oh, she had noticed - _immediately._

To say she had been livid would be a gross understatement, and had he known then what he knows now, he would have found a way to return it to her post-haste. But at the time he had just thought she was another selfish, spoiled royal who was throwing a tantrum, and he figured she’d get over it.

By some stroke of luck he never did trade it for food, or ale, or information, or his usual types of barter. He’d come close, but every time he’d reached for it, something in him always told him not to, and he’d produced other forms of payment instead. Eventually, he simply stopped carrying it on him - there was no point if he didn't intend on selling it - and he totally forgot it existed. So like a muppet, he’s been keeping it all this time, tucked away in the place where he sleeps at the castle, this little store room he found years ago that he can sneak up to almost entirely via secret passageways, hidden way up in the mostly abandoned north tower.

And gods, is he ever grateful that he still has it, because yesterday by pure luck, he had figured out that the bracelet must have been a gift to Regina from none other than Snow-bloody-White.

He’d been venturing down one of the secret passageways near the girl’s room - which is a rarity for him - he usually has little reason to go near her - and he’d come across some old chalk drawings that she must have done in her youth. He’d paused to admire them - he admittedly has a soft spot for children, especially girls, for they always remind him of his little sister - and while the images were starting to fade a bit, he could still make out (based on the hair and clothing) what was supposed to be Regina and Snow on horseback. He could see the big smiles on their faces, could see the way they were holding hands, and he could even read the caption below it that read, “Me and Nina.”

When he realized what he’d done by stealing the bracelet, he wanted to vomit. For the first time in his career as a thief, he felt ashamed to know that he’d nicked such a precious keepsake, perhaps the _only_ keepsake that Snow had given to Regina. He knows how much that girl means to the Queen, he knows how Leopold manipulates Regina’s time with her, how she hasn’t been able to visit her since she’s taken ill, and gods, he _hates_ that he took the damned bracelet away from her. As if she hasn’t suffered enough.

_Fuck._

So that’s why he’s back in her room today. He must return the bracelet to her. He can’t continue to keep it, not for another second, not now that he knows what it means to her.

The Queen is busy with her mother this afternoon, he knows because in order to avoid her, Robin bribed a maid to tell him her schedule. He wanted to be sure she was preoccupied before he went venturing up to her quarters, as he didn’t want to risk crossing her path when he promised he’d leave her alone.

But, now that he’s here, he doesn’t quite know what to do with the bracelet, or rather, he doesn’t know _where_ to put it. He wants her to know it’s been returned, wants her to see it right away so that her heart can be mended, but he doesn’t want to leave it out in the open for someone like her mother or husband to see. There’s a reason she had hidden it in her writing desk and hadn’t put it with the rest of her jewelry - of that he’s certain - and he doesn’t want to get her into trouble. That would just be icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?

He’s been in her room for a solid five minutes, far too long for someone as practiced at this as he is, trying to find an obvious-but-not-too-obvious location for it, when suddenly the Queen’s sitting room door flies open. Less than a second later, the woman herself comes stomping in, throwing an irritated, “Yes I know, Brody, but you know how she is,” over her shoulder. She takes three full paces into the room before picking her head up and - _bloody hell -_ nearly runs right into him.

Her eyes are as wide as saucers as the heavy door swings shut behind her, and she immediately takes a hurried step away from him as she hisses, “What the hell are _you_ doing here???”

_Shit-shit-shit._

“I’ll go,” he hurriedly whispers, not wanting her Lieutenant to hear them, lest she decide now is a good time to throw him back in the dungeon. He shakes his head, looks toward the heavens and cannot believe his bad luck. “I swear, I didn’t mean to see you. I only wanted to return this.”

He holds out his hand and her expressive, dark brown eyes follow his offering, but when she does not extend hers to receive the bracelet, he confirms what he already knew - this is _not_ going to go well. With a sigh, Robin rubs his forehead in shame and then sets the bracelet down on her writing desk in defeat.

“I didn’t know what it meant,” he whispers quickly, “If I had, I never would’ve –”

“It was _you_? _You_ stole it from me?” She’s still whispering, but her eyes are staring daggers at him like she wishes she could murder him on the spot. _Fuck._

“Yeah,” he nods guiltily and repents, “Sorry about that.”

“You have no idea,” she growls softly, her dark eyes darting to the bracelet and back to his - back and forth, back and forth - as if she cannot believe his betrayal, as if she cannot believe she’s actually seeing the cherished jewelry he knows she must have mourned.

“I thought, _gods_ , I thought Leopold had taken it, or my mother had. All this time I agonized over the loss of it, and it was… it was _just you_?”

The way she says _just you_ hurts a bit, makes him feel like less of a person, but he figures it’s his own fault for stealing from her in the first place, so he just nods and tells her, “If I’d known it was that important to you, I would have chosen something, _anything_ else. I swear I didn’t know.”

She’s frowning and staring at the bracelet now, not even bothering to look at him, and he figures if he’s going to say something more to her, he’d better get it out fast. He’s pretty sure this is his last chance to speak to her without his neck on the chopping block.

“I’m uh, I’m sorry about the other day in the alcove too.” He does his best to keep his voice low, runs his hand through his hair and watches the way in which she doesn’t react _at all._ “I know we’re not together, that we don’t belong to each other. I realize now that I was being quite thick by hoping that _this_ meant something to you - but it’s clear to me that it didn’t, that you’re not interested, that you’d _never_ want that, and I’m sorry for hoping that you did.”

He takes a deep breath and when she doesn’t argue with him, his heart just sort of cracks open and once again, he just can’t seem to keep his sodding mouth shut.

“But Regina, if you never speak to me again, there’s one thing I need you to know.”

This is the part that’s kept him up at night, the part that’s driven him mad with irritation whenever he thinks back on their argument in the alcove.

“When I called you _my_ darling, I didn’t mean it in the way that you took it.”

Normally he would be nervous to talk about this, he’d be afraid of what she would think of him. But she already knows about his wretched past, and that didn’t stop her from making the assumptions she did, so he figures it really doesn’t matter if he brings it up, since she already thinks so little of him.

“I told you that I was an indentured servant once, and I know what it’s like to be nothing more than a possession, I know what it’s like to have a master. So you can rest assured that if we had ever been… something… I would never have wanted to _own_ you. I know the value of freedom and I’d rather die than take that away from you.”

Without looking at him, she walks over to her writing desk and picks up her bracelet, then starts examining the silver band, tracing her fingers around and around it, her head ducked so that he cannot read her expression. All of her thick black hair is pulled up today in an elegant twist, the dark blue of her tight, backless dress beautiful against her skin, the high, almost chaste neckline in the front embroidered with black gemstones that glitter in the afternoon sunlight that’s streaming in from the far window.

Gods, she is _so_ beautiful.

“I _told_ you this could never be anything more,” her voice is low and serious, her eyes trained on the bracelet as she picks at the curved edge of it with her perfectly manicured fingernail - French tipped with a tease of silver today - he notices. “I _told_ you that we shouldn’t do this.”

Her eyes drift upward and connect with his, and she searches his expression but apparently it is not at all to her liking, because she scowls, waves the bracelet at him and hisses, “Why would you bother to bring this back to me?”

Robin says nothing - he’s already told her why, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually want his response - which he confirms when she snaps at him without giving him a proper amount of time to respond.

“What gives you the right to just show up whenever you want? Don’t you think you’ve done enough, Thief?” she’s angry, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “And why are _you_ acting so upset? What reason could you possibly have to look so _fucking_ upset?”

Robin tips his head and gives her a knowing look, and Regina scowls at him.

“Stop giving me those sad eyes and, and, and standing there, looking like, like some sort of kicked puppy,” she stutters, looking a bit nervous now, her eyes darting around the room.

He sighs and tries to think of a response - something that won’t incense her further - but apparently he takes to long, because she huffs dramatically, rolls her eyes and tosses the bracelet onto her desk as she criticizes, “You know, if I didn’t know better, I might suspect that you were stupid enough to fall for me. That you have _feelings_ for me.”

It takes a second before Regina looks at him again - she’s quite caught up in her annoyance - but eventually she crosses her arms and pins him with a disgruntled glare. Knowing this could very well be the last thing he ever says to her, Robin decides he better make his next words count, so he straightens up and stares right back at her, shrugs and quietly admits, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I did - _I do_ \- have feelings for you.”

* * *

No.

No no no.

He’s not allowed to have feelings for her. It’s simply not allowed.

“No you don’t.” She shakes her head, glowers at him, and quietly demands, “Take it back.”

Robin’s brow furrows tightly and he glances around the room for a few seconds before he whispers, “What? Are you serious?”

She nods and feels heat flushing her cheeks, the stutter of her heartbeat wracking against her chest as she whispers, “Do I look like I’m joking? Take it back this instant.”

He looks even more confused, then after another drawn out moment, he cringes, rubs his hand across his jaw, and puffs out a long, deep breath.

Then to her complete annoyance he says, “No.”

“Get out,” she rasps, curling her hands into fists as she feels the frustration well up inside her like a rising tide. “Just… get the hell out.”

“Right, yeah,” he starts backing away from her. “Look, I’m sorry if that shocks you or if I’ve upset you, but I don’t see the point in taking it back now. I won’t lie to you, and anyway, I can’t help the way I feel.”

He pauses, curses and starts again, “For what it’s worth, I was never trying to hurt you, Regina. You deserve so much better than this…” His voice breaks and he groans quietly, obviously stressed, pauses to viciously rub his palms against his eyes, then he runs his hands over his face and quickly shakes his head back and forth.

He takes a deep breath, and she can tell that he’s trying to hide the fact that he’s just wiped the tears of frustration from his eyes, but it’s really to no avail because they’re still red and damp and building up again with each passing second.

“What is wrong with you?” she scolds, fighting her own mounting emotions, trying to keep her voice from rising as she whisper-snaps at him. “You can’t just come in here and give me back my bracelet. You can’t just apologize and tell me you have feelings and expect me to, to… what do you expect me to do with that?”

“Honestly?” He sniffs, stares hard across the room for a moment before he finally looks back to her through his thick, watery lashes and adds, “I don’t expect anything. I just came to return your bracelet.”

He turns then and starts toward her balcony, and terror streaks through Regina, the likes of which she has never known. She envisions him hurling himself over the side of it and falling to his gruesome death. She imagines never seeing him again, realizes how stupid she’s being, how close she is to losing him forever, and she breaks. Suddenly she’s rushing across the room, grabbing him by the sleeve, tugging him around and harshly whispering, “ _Wait! Robin, wait!”_

He doesn’t say anything, just wipes at his eyes once but otherwise he stands stock-still as she tries to think of something to do, something that might fix this, because stubbornly holding out and being angry at the whole world isn’t solving anything.

The problem is, Regina knows she really shouldn’t have gotten so angry in the first place. She knows that when he had called her _my darling,_ that he hadn’t meant to be possessive, that his intentions had been good _._ Looking back, it’s clear that he’d been swept up in the moment, that he had meant to be sweet, to even show her he cared. His attempt at an apology right now only further secures that realization for her.

But at the time, his words had scared the living hell out of her, and she had panicked.

All she had heard was the ‘ _my’_ portion of his innocent phrase – she had heard it echo in her head the way her mother uses it, _my love,_ the way her husband uses it, _my wife_ \- and she had blown it completely out of proportion. She can never be _his_ darling, she can never be _his_ anything. She is already spread much too thin.

So she turned on him. She’d come at him with her temper whipping around her like a hurricane - she had accused him of things he’d never done, had berated him, had threatened him and then, because that didn’t seem like enough, she’d assaulted him.

Oh, and then she’d lied to him.

Because she didn’t want to stop what they were doing - not for a second. She had desperately wanted to find out what this was between them, had wanted him to keep pressing those sweet kisses to her temple while he kept her safely wrapped up in his arms, hidden in the shadows of that alcove, and most importantly, she wanted him to never, _ever_ let her go.

But that’s not what she had told him.

No, she had told him to get out, to leave her alone, to _stop._

And because he’s perfect, and wonderful, and _good -_ he did.

He’s still not looking at her, he’s staring dejectedly at the far wall behind her, and she’s never seen him do that, has never had an encounter with her Thief where he wasn’t brimming with confidence and snark, and it kills her to see him like this. To know that he’s hurting because _she_ has done this, because she has exacerbated a situation that never needed to go this far.

Gods, how she wishes she was normal.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she whispers, holding onto the cheap, rough cotton fabric of his sleeve for dear life, just in case he tries to pull away from her. “It’s not that I would _never_ want what we had, it’s that I _can’t._ ”

“I understand,” he nods, but he does not look at her. His tone, even in a whisper is solemn and detached, and she is certain he thinks she’s placating him.

“Robin,” she slides her hand down and dares to take his fingers, and when he doesn’t curl his around hers in return, her chest aches, tears threaten to spill, and she has to fight the urge to yell her frustration at him. “Please, listen to me.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he whispers, squeezes her hand, and tries to release her, but she refuses to let go and he frowns. “You don’t need to do this.”

“Listen to me,” she repeats anyway, “I _can’t_ want what we had, but that doesn’t mean that I _didn’t_ want it.”

His head jerks slightly and when his blue eyes connect with hers, his expression is so intense she nearly loses her breath.

“And I might…” she clears her throat nervously, can’t believe that she’s actually doing this, that she’s about to admit she fucked up. “I might have overreacted in the alcove. I probably could have handled that better.”

“Look,” he takes a step back from her, and though a second ago she thought she had made progress, with their hands outstretched between them like this, it’s exceptionally awkward again. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but I get it - this _can’t_ work. You’ve already told me to stop, and I vowed that I’d leave you alone. I swear that you don’t have to worry, seeing you today was an accident, and I won’t bother you again.”

His fingers open and he gives her hand a little shake, but once again, she stubbornly refuses to release him.

“Regina, let go of my hand.”

She scowls and re-closes the gap between them, grabs his hand with both of hers and growls, “I’m trying to tell you that I don’t want you to go, damnit.”

He looks flummoxed now, glances down at their joined hands and asks quietly, “Why?”

She steps into him and runs one hand up his chest, then curls it around the back of his neck so she can pull his head down to her. “Because I don’t want you to stop. I never did.”

She guides his head down and presses her lips hard against his, trying to communicate all the seriousness of their conversation in the action, to show him that she means what she said and that she’d like nothing more than to get back to that place.

He returns her kiss, but it is with an unfamiliar reticence, with a reservation that she decides she positively _hates_. His hands don’t dive into her hair, they don’t cup her face or grab for her hips or her ass - he doesn’t touch her at all actually - except for the one hand that she’s still clutching desperately in hers, the one she’s becoming more and more afraid of ever letting go, in case she never gets to hold it again. His lips are moving against hers but he’s not very enthusiastic, he’s not pushing back, not tilting his head, he’s not sucking at her lips or trying to slip his tongue into her mouth. He’s not pulling, scraping, or nipping gently with his teeth, he’s not giving her those hot little huffs of warm breaths, he’s not doing anything but the absolute bare minimum of pressing his lips to hers in return, and she quickly realizes that going back to “before” is perhaps not as easy as she had hoped it might be.

She breaks away and touches her forehead to his, a little breathless even in spite of the anticlimactic nature of the kiss, and runs her fingers up and down the back of his neck, scratching lightly and trying to soothe him.

“Robin,” she whispers, more now due to proximity than to hide their conversation from Brody, who she knows is still waiting for her in the corridor. “Come on, can’t we just forget this whole thing happened?” She bumps his nose with hers and guides his hand to her waist, where she wraps his arm around her.

“I… don’t know,” he shakes his head, and her heart sinks. “I’m not sure our uh, interests align anymore.”

“Our interests?” Her heart is beating fast as she guides his other arm around her waist, before she winds both of hers up around his neck.

“Regina,” his fingers curl into the bare skin of her back, exposed by the low cut of her dress, and he looks at her lips for a long time before he continues, “I don’t know how to do this without wanting you. Without wanting more.”

She holds his gaze steadily, wishing she had a better answer for him, but her hands are tied. “I can’t give you more, not even if I wanted to.”

He nods and looks completely heartbroken as he murmurs, “And you don’t want to.”

“What makes you think that?” she half-heartedly teases, but it’s too soon, it’s a mistake, because he gives her a completely dubious look and almost snaps, “I’m a common thief and you’re a Queen - what real use could a woman like you possibly have for a bloke like me?”

The world stops turning as his words sink in. Regret, thick and heavy, fills her lungs, crowds out her breath and makes her feel dizzy, makes her feel nauseous and lightheaded with the terrible decisions she’s made.

Because it is entirely her fault that he believes such nonsense.

She has treated him so poorly - has abused and belittled him at every opportunity - has acted the part of the arrogant, privileged Queen so well that he actually believed her when she took those cheap shots at his class.

She hasn’t meant any of the nasty things she’s said to him, _including_ the cruel insults she spat at him as a prisoner while she was interrogating him. It was all part of an act, part of a show - the great and terrible Evil Queen exerting her dominance and striking terror in him in order to get what she wants. His status as a commoner, or an outlaw, or _whatever_ he is doesn’t matter to her in the slightest, and even if it did, it’s not like it would stop her now. Her husband is a King and his treatment is nothing compared to the way Robin treats her.

But he doesn’t know that - she’s never told him that she doesn’t care about his class, she’s never told him that privilege (or lack thereof) doesn’t matter to her, and she’s never told him about Daniel. No. All she’s ever done is throw it in his face that _she_ is the Queen, and _he_ is nothing more than a peasant, and demand that he get on his knees and worship her. God, how she hates herself.

She gives him a regretful smile and cups his face with both hands, “You really don’t know your value, do you?”

He tilts his head and looks genuinely befuddled by her words, and with him looking at her like that, all confused, and adorable, and sweet - _fuck._ She swears she can feel herself falling harder for him by the second. She skims her fingers across his short beard and she can’t help it, she has to tell him - it’s now or never.

“If I could, if I was free to, I _would_ want more with you, Robin.”

Shock flickers in his eyes and she’s not brave enough to face it, so she tucks her body in close and presses her forehead against his temple. He holds her tightly, his arms wrapped around her back, and it gives her just enough courage to lay the rest of her cards on the table.

“Besides, you’re not _just_ a commoner, you're not just _any_ thief,” she takes a deep breath and exhales shakily against his neck, “You’re _mine_.”

His breath catches, and she pushes herself to ask him what she’s dying to know. “Won’t you give me a second chance?”


	18. Fair Warning

“Won’t you give me a second chance?”

Regina waits on pins and needles for Robin to respond, stares up into his conflicted blue eyes as the tension builds, and builds, _and builds._ When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his voice is hushed, his tone soft as silk, and she wants to hold him closer, wants to erase this stupid fight between them more than she’s ever wanted anything before.

“I shouldn’t,” he rasps, running his hands lightly up and down her back as her heart crumbles into tiny pieces. “You’re right about all this, you know? You’ve been right from the start. This can’t end well - there’s nothing but pain, and sorrow, and a difficult path set out before us.”

She drops her gaze and clenches her teeth, hating herself for ruining this, for pushing away this wonderful man and being stupid enough to show him just how pointless this entire situation is. How could she expect him to take her back when she was foolish enough to showcase everything that was wrong with what they’re doing, when she was idiotic enough to let him see all her flaws? She let her guard down, she let him experience the real _her,_ and just look at what it got her - _nothing._

“But I don’t really care how difficult it might be,” Robin continues, and that has her jerking her gaze back up to his, has her fingers tightening along the sides of his neck. “I don’t care what sort of pain I might endure. As long as being together is what _you_ want, Regina, I’m willing to give you, to give _us_ an infinite number of second chances. I’ve been bloody miserable without you, and if I don’t have to, I’d rather not spend another second apart.”

She stares up at him in shock for a beat, then something between them _snaps,_ and they move at the same time. Robin's hands dive into her hair, Regina’s slide down to fist in his shirt, and this time when they kiss, it’s _all_ heat.

Their kisses quickly turn frantic - a battle of lips, and tongues, and the slick, smacking sounds as they part and return - paired with the wandering of hands and the tripping of feet as she yanks him to her and starts backpedaling across the room. Her writing desk rattles loudly as they stumble into it, but the sound only prompts her to turn and hop up onto it, quickly shoving several items aside, which clatter to the floor, but she pays it no mind. None of that matters right now because Robin is leaning over her, he’s pressing her down on top of the heavy furniture, kissing her lips, her cheek, the line of her jaw.

His breath is hot against her skin and his foresty scent is all around her, one of his large hands is palming her breast and the other tangling in the back of her hair, but it’s not enough - she needs him closer. Regina grabs a firm handful of his ass and shamelessly tugs him against her, arches her back and without delay, both of his hands dive down and start sliding up the outsides of her thighs. He wastes no time rucking her skirt - up, _up!_ \- his calloused fingers smoothing sensually across her soft skin until he wraps them around the lace band of her thong, where he takes a firm hold, yanks it down her legs and throws it haphazardly to the floor somewhere behind them.

Yes. _Fuck_ yes.

She’s endured one whole week without his touch, one-hundred-and-sixty plus hours of complete Robin-abstinence, and now he's all she can think about, he’s all that she needs.

She pulls him back to her and wraps her legs around his waist, throws one arm around his neck and kisses him hard while she starts shoving her skirt out of the way with her other hand. She's already desperate for him, and she needs to show him that she's serious about wanting him, how only _he_ provokes this insatiable need that already has an incredible amount of heat pooling between her legs and slicking her inner thighs.

“Touch me,” she whispers against his lips, blindly grabbing for his hand, catching his wrist, and guiding it to her smooth, bare upper thigh. “Put your hands on me, Robin. Let me show you how much I want you, how much I’ve missed you.”

He groans quietly and curls his hand tightly around her leg, swipes his thumb through the crease at her hip and teases along the edge of it for a moment before he breathes, “And I, you.”

Her dress is still a little restricting, caught underneath her, so he helps her with it, lifts and shifts her until it's properly scrunched up, and now she’s sitting bare-assed on her writing desk as he drops his eyes and watches his hands spread her naked thighs wide open.

“This is for me?” he asks, his fingers skimming lightly across her already glistening lips, then coasting gently up and down her slit without delving between her folds. His eyes are narrowed as if he doesn’t believe it, as if he thinks she’s making this up, as if she might actually tell him, _No, it’s for someone else._

It’s like he thinks she doesn’t want him at all, and she hates that she’s tarnished this by having planted that thought in his head.

“Yes,” she nods breathlessly, stroking her fingers over the back of his neck in encouragement, “All for you.”

She reaches down then and covers his hand with hers, presses his fingers against her, and coats him in her slippery wetness. His breath puffs out hot and harsh against her forehead, ruffles her flyaways, and makes her smile. His reaction pleases her, gives her hope that she can mend this, gives her the confidence she needs to guide his fingers to her clit, where she sucks in a quick breath when he immediately starts to circle over the swollen, sensitive flesh.

“You’re the only” -she pauses to moan when he captures her clit between two fingers and starts to massage it- “only one I want to touch me like this.”

 _Gods_ , she’s positively _aching_ , practically dripping, and all she wants is for him to fill her, to give her that glorious stretch so that when she comes, she can clench on him, _all of him,_ and then he’ll never have to doubt how he makes her feel again.

“Inside,” she rasps, working her hips a little desperately as he switches back to rubbing and speeds up on her clit. Her hand finds his again and separates out his middle and ring fingers before she guides him to her entrance. “ _Inside_.”

Robin glides his fingers through her slippery wetness, circles and teases gently, rubs against her sensitive flesh and makes her arch as he sets her on fire with desire. She busies herself by kissing him - his lips, scruffy cheeks, chin, and neck, - everywhere she can reach. She runs her hands over his arms, up shoulders, and cups his neck, so grateful to have his powerful, masculine frame beneath her fingertips once more. The balsam scent of his heated skin fills her nose - so familiar, so inviting that she hums in contentment, even as the rest of her body vibrates with excitement under his talented fingers. She can’t help but to suck forcefully at him, to mark his throat and drag her teeth across his jawline, to nip and tug at his skin as his fingers tease her slick lips, and suddenly it’s too much, she’s too impatient for teasing and she needs him now.

“Inside,” she repeats in his ear, sinks her teeth into his earlobe and scratches her nails up the back of his neck. Robin moans, rubs the broad pad of his finger around and around her entrance before he carefully eases it into her, and it hits her then that even though that feels nearly perfect, this time that’s not quite what she had meant.

“Robin, I want…” she cups his face and pulls his head up so she can look him in the eyes as she tries to explain. “ _I-want-you-to-fuck-me.”_

Robin kisses her slow and deep, then eases a second finger into her, stretching her a little more before he starts up those smooth, steady thrusts she’s come to crave, all while his thumb presses down and rubs on her clit. It’s good - _gods,_ it feels fantastic - and she will definitely come from this, but she wants something else, she wants _more_.

Regina wants to make up for the havoc she played with his heart, she wants to give him something in repayment for her terrible behavior. She wants to show him just how badly she missed him, to show him that she values him, that she _trusts_ him more than anyone else.

“ _Fuck me,_ ” she quietly tries again, biting at his lower lip in punctuation, but he misunderstands and - _ohhh, oh gods_ \- increases the speed and force of his fingers, working them more firmly - _fuck_ , that's good - even though that's not quite what she meant.

He shifts just a little, and - _ohhh -_ she drops her head back, makes a high-pitched gasp, and he reads her well. Robin speeds up, curls his fingers, and starts to hit _that spot_ again and again, focusing on it and generating white-hot pleasure deep in her core that makes her toes curl and her breaths hiss, while his thumb swipes quickly across her clit. She gushes a little - _mmm-gods_ \- then a little more, and her wetness runs down to her ass, which he – _oh, gods_ \- slips a finger into. It's perfect, what he's doing is absolutely _perfect,_ and she has to squeeze her eyes shut so that she doesn’t lose herself to the climax that’s already threatening.

“Like this?” Robin's voice is filled with gravel, his forehead pinched with concentration, his thick shoulder flexing beneath the tight grip of her hand as he finger-fucks her, driving deep into her again, again – _fuck -_ and _again._ “Is this what you want?”

She almost says yes, almost gives in and selfishly allows him to finish what he’s so successfully started, but at the last second, she manages to shake her head and stutter out, “N-no.”

He slows, then stops, and with his forehead pressed to hers and his breaths coming fast and hard, he slips his fingers out of her. She's breathless too - breathless, nerve-wracked, and suddenly terrified of his rejection - so she takes a second to kiss him, to rub her nose against his and press a little peck to the very tip of it as she gathers herself.

She's going to do this. She is, she just, she needs a moment to build up her courage.

She can see his confusion mounting as she reaches for his belt, opens his trousers and with a few quick movements, she has him in hand, his thick length hard and hot against her palm.

She pumps him while she puts her other hand on his hip and pulls him to her, shifting herself so that she can rub his wide head through her slick core. On contact, he chuffs a hot breath that coasts across her cheeks and makes her want to kiss him again, and if she wasn't so distracted staring at where he's _almost_ fucking her, she would.

But they are _so close_ to finally having that now, and she can't look away. She can't think about anything except what it might feel like to take him deep inside of her.

“Fuck me, Robin,” she rasps, praying that he will, that he'll close these last few inches of hesitance, but Robin just stares as if he’s frozen solid, watching intently as she strokes him and slicks him up, his hands gripping her tight around her spread thighs. He remains motionless right up until the point where the head of him is right against her, _so fucking close_ to pressing in that her swollen lips are spread around his shaft, the dusky pink flesh is stretched and ready, her body _aching_ with the desire for him to fill her. But suddenly his eyes widen, he licks his lips, and – _oh no, no-no-no_ \- he drops his hand to cover hers, and while he doesn't pull back, he completely resists sliding into her.

“But you said we can’t,” he shakes his head and looks longingly down at their joined hands, where the head of his cock is pressed right up against her. “You said this belongs to… to _him._ ”

Regina could cry with the sincerity that’s thickening his tone, could almost come from the heat and unabashed desire in his eyes for what they both want so badly.

“It does,” she drags her fingertips lightly up and down the back of his hand and leans up to give him a small kiss on the cheek. “That hasn’t changed, it can’t. But I want…” she takes a deep breath, “I want you to do it anyway.”

He looks extremely conflicted by her seemingly sudden change of heart, and she can’t blame him, though it irks her that she has this _issue_ to begin with.

She hates that she hasn’t been able to allow normal relations with him, that she’s shared a bed with him but hasn’t been able to sleep with him in the way that a man beds his wife. She _isn’t_ his wife - how can she be when she is already married to someone else? But she’s quickly realizing just how strong her feelings are for him, and even though she can’t give him _more_ , she can’t give him a life together, she _can_ give him this _,_ at least right now, and she wants whatever she can have with him, too.

So it’s time to break the rules. He deserves it, and so does she, damnit.

"But what about… _him?_ " Robin asks. "What about the rules?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Since when do outlaws care about rules?"

"Since _you_ were the one making them," he counters. "I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

"Now, don't be so hard on yourself," she teases, her voice smokey and sensual as she rubs her hand across his hip. "Maybe you're out of practice, but I'm sure you won't be that bad."

Robin laughs - it breaks the tension - and Regina takes advantage of it, urges him closer and gently runs her thumb along his shaft. “Come on, Robin," she purrs. "Don’t you want me? Don’t you want to fuck me?”

His immediate, almost fierce-sounding reply of, “ _God, yes_ ,” causes a chill to run up the entire length of her spine.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Robin licks his lips as she starts to tug on his cock with both hands now, her fingers stroking the length of him, his tip bumping teasingly against her slick core.

“I never wanted you to stop," she reminds him. "So Robin, don’t – don’t stop - don’t deny us this.” She looks him straight in the eyes as she asks, "You are my Thief, aren't you?"

And when he rasps, "Yeah, I'm yours," she challenges, “Then come and steal from the King.”

In a flash, Robin tugs her to the edge of the desk and pulls her legs up over his elbows. His mouth is on her in the next instant - his tongue swirling and rubbing at her clit for a few moan-inducing seconds that have her slapping her hands down and curling her fingers around the edge of the desk as her back arches sharply in ecstasy. His mouth is so talented, and in no time, he has her sensitive little bud throbbing beneath the quick swipes of his tongue and the hard sucking pull of his lips. He has her gasping, panting, making little huffs and soft hums of approval, sweat beading at her forehead as he licks and swirls over her, and then - _ohhh fuck,_ yes, _yes_ \- he's standing up and his thick cock is at her entrance and she's so excited she can barely breathe.

She's _so_ slippery now, and he's easing in _\- oh gods, oh fuck._ Her mind is exploding, her body is on fire, all because in one more second, he’s going to do it, he’s going to finally be inside of her in _that_ way, and she's never wanted anything more in her entire shitty life.

Robin slides in just a little, then pulls back and groans, “Oh, Regina, you’re so bloody tight.”

She nods vigorously, drops her head back and, dizzy with desire, she tells him honestly, “You made me like this. Now make me come.”

Robin presses one of his large hands down on her lower stomach as he pushes his thick length deep into her in a smooth, slick slide that - _fuck, fuck!_ \- hits her g-spot and makes her breath hitch, makes her moan _loudly_ , makes her hands scrabble at the writing desk and her legs curl around him. He bottoms out and she moans shamelessly, wanton and totally lost to this hot rushing desire, trembling with the intensity of the moment as he bends forward to press kisses down the exposed column of her throat. She wraps one hand around the back of his neck and pulls his head up to kiss him, to touch her tongue to his and whisper, _Yes,_ and, _So good,_ and, _More,_ between every parting of their lips.

This is nothing like what she has ever experienced with her husband, there is no discomfort, no pain, and no awkwardness. There is nothing but bliss and sparks of pure pleasure, and when he slowly, carefully thrusts inside of her once, twice, three times, then starts to pick up the pace, increasing the speed of his hips until he's really, truly _fucking her_ \- gods - she nearly comes. His thrusts are fast, and deep, and smooth - _mmm-gods! -_ and her clit is throbbing mercilessly under the relentless rub of his pelvis against hers as her arousal runs from her, slicks his cock and streams down, drips onto the desk beneath her and creates an obscene mess. Her hips are thrusting up - she's already so full but his cock is perfect, he's thick, and long, and stretching her so wide, but _fuck,_ she keeps trying to take more of him; and she’s nearly frantic - writhing on the desk, hanging onto his arm for dear life with one hand, while the other one flails wildly behind her, seeking purchase to keep her from sliding across the smooth surface.

Her hand connects with something heavy, and a second later the startling sound of glass shattering perks her ears. She turns her head and with half-lidded eyes she can see that she has knocked a large crystal vase to the floor, and she knows she should be concerned but then - _O_ _h! O_ _hhh gods!_ \- Robin raises her right leg up onto his shoulder - gets a rhythm going - and all she can manage is to rasp a husky, “Yes! Just like that!”

Regina is on fire for him, her body is thrumming with years-worth of pent-up lust, her inner muscles are coiling, she’s spiraling up. Everything in her is so, _so sensitive,_ and he's only encouraging her further - whispering her name, telling her how good she feels, how tight, how long he's wanted to do this - and she’s close, so very close. Just as Robin stokes the white-hot pleasure to a nearly unbearable precipice, just as she’s arching up and clutching tightly to his bicep, begging him, _“Please, oh god, please! Don’t-stop-don’t-stop-don’t-stop!_ ” -

The door to her room comes whipping open, loudly _slamming_ against the interior wall as a man charges through. A deep, authoritative voice bellows, “What’s going on here?!” and for one, horrifying second, everything _stops._

Then suddenly, it slingshots into high-speed.

Robin moves lightning fast - somehow, he’s able to yank her skirt down and, with one muscular arm curled around her waist, he hauls her up and off the desk, sweeping her behind him as he jerks his trousers up and plants himself squarely between her and her completely scandalized-looking Lieutenant.

Before she can even react, his daggers are in his hands, Brody’s short sword is in his, both men are yelling accusations and obscenities at each other, and everything is completely out of control.

 _Fuuuck_.

“Shut up! Stop!” she commands, trying to yell over them and push past Robin, but for the first time in ages, she’s completely ignored. Both men have squared up as if they’re about to duel, Brody looks like he’s going to charge at any second, and when she tries to slip past Robin, he sidesteps without missing a beat, easily blocking her movement before he protectively shoves her back behind him again.

Suddenly Brody moves - takes two hard steps at Robin, and Regina legitimately fears for her Thief’s life. Brody is an excellent fighter - the very best of her guardsmen and she has _never_ , in thirteen years, seen him lose a fight. But then again, Robin is an ace with his knives, she’s seen him throw them with deadly precision, and - _gods_ \- she’s terrified that he’ll slit Brody’s throat, that they’re both seconds from bleeding out on her sitting room floor, and she doesn’t want to lose either of them over this.

“SIR BRODERICK! THAT IS ENOUGH! ROBIN! I SAID STOP!”

To her immense relief, the word _stop_ causes Robin to pause, and the use of his full name and title gets Brody to pull back sharply, has his head jerking up and his dark brown eyes connecting with hers. She _never_ calls him that, doesn’t even remember the last time she called him _Broderick_ – probably the first day she met him – and she can see the uncertainty written across his face. Brody stares at her for a moment, looking completely bewildered, then suddenly, without warning, his leg gives out.

Her Lieutenant goes down on one knee to catch himself, and it’s all the time Robin needs to kick his sword clean out of his hand. It flies across the room, strikes the flagstone with a loud, metallic _clang!_ and much to her relief, when Regina once again orders, “Enough!” This time, both men back off and seem to understand she’s the one in charge.

Robin lowers his daggers so he can properly fix his trousers, and, seeing that Robin isn’t immediately going to attack him, Brody breaks eye contact with her to look for the cause of his fall. His eyes drop to the floor and when she follows his stare, her entire face turns crimson at the sight.

He’s kneeling on her thong.

“Oh gods!” Brody scrambles backward and tips over onto his rear, scuttles like a crab and kicks childishly at the garment as if it might jump up and chase after him. “Ew!" his face is flushed beet red with embarrassment as he exclaims, "Oh good gods, Your Majesty!”

It isn’t until he gets a few feet away that he must remember what he saw when he barged in though, because it is then that his eyes flick to Robin and his expression grows severely irritated. When he finally looks back to her, he is clearly outraged, because then his eyes go right back to Robin and he growls, “ _This_ guy? Are you kidding me?”

She is positively burning with embarrassment, mortified right down to her soul, wishing she could turn herself into ash and be carried off by the wind, when out of the corner of her eye, she notices that the maids have not yet come to collect this morning’s breakfast cart, upon which, her tea set is still sitting.

Smoldering humiliation suddenly morphs into incendiary rage. How _dare_ he question her?! Who the hell does he think he is to barge in here and interrupt, to embarrass her, to ruin this one-fucking-chance she had for this???

Regina is furious, shaking with the anger, frustration, and tension that's building inside of her. And Brody, _fucking Brody,_ is just sitting there on the floor, staring up at her as if _she's_ in the wrong, and all she can think is how irate she is, how humiliated, how he is _such_ an ass for ruining this.

So she grabs the nearest teacup and hurls it straight at his stupid-fucking-head.

She misses, but just barely. Brody manages to get his hands up to protect his face, and as the fine china strikes the leather bracer on his forearm, it explodes into a million satisfying pieces.

Having been thwarted, she grabs for the next closest cup and whips that at him. He yelps when it strikes him and bursts into pieces, so she pelts him with another one, and another - and when Robin _laughs_ , she turns and chucks a saucer at him. He jumps in shock as the plate shatters against his shoulder, barely recovers before she launches the whole fucking sugar bowl at him - the white powder leaving a glittery trail as it sails through the air, hits him square in the chest and then _smashes_ against the flagstone. Before she can grab for the creamer, suddenly Robin is in front of her, wearing this dumb grin, sugar shimmering in his stubble and sticking to his neck as he cups her face with his big hands, ducks his head down to catch her eyes and asks her, “Oiy, what the devil are you doing?”

She’s about to snap at him, to tell him that _obviously_ she’s going to pepper them to death with tea accessories, when it occurs to her that she really has no reason to destroy her favorite tea set.

“I…” she pauses, panting a little from her angry exertion and catching the dumbfounded look on Brody’s face as he cautiously rises to his feet several paces behind Robin. Then she tips her chin up and says, “Well, I _told_ you two to stop it.”

Robin grins, tucks back a few strands of her hair that have escaped from her pristine updo and agrees, “That you did.”

A beat passes where the three of them linger in uncomfortable silence, then Robin clears his throat and asks, “What happens now?”

“I’d be happy to take the thief back down to the dungeon, Your Majesty.” Brody narrows his eyes at Robin, and Regina notes that he’s already collected his short sword, which he must have done when she wasn’t looking.

“No. He’s not going anywhere,” she shakes her head, presses her palm to her forehead and tries in vain to think of a solution to the mess she’s in. “He, uh, _he’s_ ,” cringing, she cuts herself off, then lamely finishes with, “He stays here.”

It’s a stupid, ridiculous thing to say, but she can’t help it, she’s too flustered to come up with anything better.

Brody clears his throat and shifts awkwardly, and Robin, the ass, just smirks.

“If it’s all the same to you then, Your Majesty,” Brody says quietly, “I’d prefer to erase the last five minutes from my memory.”

She stares hard at him for a moment, and she can tell by the way he holds her eyes – strong and steady - that he is completely serious.

If it had been anyone else who caught them, this would be beyond calamitous, so in a way, she’s lucky that it was Brody. She has known him since the first day she came to live at this castle, and he has always overseen her Queen’s guard. She cannot even count the number of times that he has put his life in jeopardy to protect her, and when it comes to allies, she might even say that she counts Brody as one of them. He is truly loyal to her, the closest thing she has to a friend, and she knows that he won’t turn on her – not unless he absolutely must. In thirteen years, he has never doubled back on his word, has never betrayed her confidence, and if he's asking to forget this, she does not believe that he will betray her now.

“Consider it erased,” she nods.

She turns to Robin and takes his hand in hers, doing her best to ignore the way Brody shifts uncomfortably a few steps away. “I have a busy schedule until after supper, but I would like to discuss the things that we were…” her eyes slide to Brody and then back to Robin, “-that we were discussing before we were so rudely interrupted. Will you stay?”

Robin nods. “For obvious reasons I’ll have to slip out for a bit and come back later, but I can make something work.”

Regina frowns and considers his statement. All this sneaking around on his part is getting exhausting, is getting too difficult to maintain. Perhaps Brody's little interruption _can_ be of use.

“Brody,” she turns her attention to him and fixes him with a look that is all business. “Find this man a proper occupation. I’m sick of him slinking about my castle like a…” she looks back at Robin and smirks, “Like a Shadow.”

Robin grins at her, and Brody’s brows shoot up. Her Lieutenant looks nonplussed for half of a second - but when she glares at him, his dark eyes flit back and forth as he slips back into professionalism. He thinks it over for a few seconds, but then he nods and says, “I believe I have just the thing.”

She nods approvingly, then for good measure she adds, “I want him dressed and back in my chambers for inspection this evening. I need you to make this look good, there is no room for mistakes. If anyone notices anything out of the ordinary, I’ll have your hide for it, Lieutenant.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he nods dutifully and lays his arm across his chest in the symbol of loyalty to her. “Consider it done.”

Regina leaves the two men to figure out the rest of the details, with strict orders not to kill each other, then heads off on her own. She has an exceptionally busy day, and she hadn’t meant to get sidetracked by all of that, but she’s infinitely glad that she did. She has something to look forward to at the end of the day now, and as long as Brody keeps her secret, there are only a few new ways for this to bite her in the ass.

She's just thinking those over, compiling a list of all the things she'll need to do to maintain this ruse, when she rounds the corner to the great hall, and - _fuck -_ comes face to face with her mother.

“Regina, my love,” Cora drawls, looking her up and down, then frowning. “Where on earth have you been? And why in god’s name are you so flushed?”

Regina only manages to redden further when she realizes she raced out of her bedroom so quickly that she’d completely forgotten to put on any underwear. _Gods,_ she can feel the wetness drying on her upper thighs, and now her mother is staring at her, getting more irritated with every second that it takes her to produce an appropriate response.

“I was rushing,” she fumbles, “I’m late.”

“I can see that,” Cora rolls her eyes. “You’ve completely missed introductions. We’re heading to the gardens now for a stroll with the King of Arendelle and his ambassadors. Come.” Without waiting, Cora threads Regina’s arm through hers and starts pulling her in the opposite direction. “I’ll walk with you and fill you in on how to appeal to King Agnarr’s tastes.”

Regina hides her cringe as her mother launches into her political strategy, wishing that she had never left her bedroom. She imagines a world where she and Robin had never been interrupted, where they could remain hidden away for hours upon hours, somewhere quiet and peaceful, somewhere that smells of balsam and mint and the fresh morning breeze.

Oh, how she wishes life were so simple.

She obediently strolls the long corridors of the castle, half-listening to the advice Cora is trying to pound into her brain, but admittedly distracted by the events of the afternoon and her curiosity over what Brody has in mind for her Thief. When they enter the gardens and she joins her husband, it hits her that by this time tomorrow she might be able to look at Robin in broad daylight, that she might be able to discreetly stand next to him, that she might even be able to wander these beautiful rows of rose bushes and hedges alongside him, if she is careful.

The idea of all that stirs something in her, so that even when her husband insists on holding her hand, when he leans over and spouts something stupidly paranoid about how the happily married King Agnarr has been checking out her ass and how he’s always been jealous of everything he has, nothing Leopold says or does is enough to break her good mood.

It isn't until later she realizes that today, for the first time in years, she actually allowed herself to hope for something _more_. She allowed herself to let her guard down, to be vulnerable - not because she was forced to, but because she _wanted to._ For a few stolen moments today, she imagined what it might be like to have a different life - a good life, full of love and light and happiness - a life where it was just her and Robin, together against the world.

It is a life she will never have.

And even though she knows she should banish those thoughts, she should lock them away and never entertain them again, the second she enters her room and sees Robin that night - she knows she can't.

Her Thief just looks way too damned good dressed up as her new Huntsman.


	19. Lessons in Chemistry

“Well, here it is,” Brody says quietly, not bothering to hide his begrudging tone as he swings the door wide open into Robin’s new room.

“Brilliant,” Robin pats the Lieutenant on the shoulder and slips past him into the small bedroom that has been set up with a writing desk, a bureau, and a cushy looking bed outfitted in what appears to be some outrageously soft blankets. “Cheers, mate.”

Brody makes no move to leave at Robin’s quick dismissal, however, and honestly, Robin would’ve been shocked if he had.

“You know, had it been up to me, I’d be throwing your ass back in a cell right now.”

“Just now?” Robin smirks, goes to the bed, and drops down flat on his back to test it out. He’s not disappointed - the divine comfort that’s just been awarded to him is second only to Regina’s bed, and he feels rather spoiled by it. “I must say, Lieutenant, I’d have thought you’d have had me locked up hours ago.”

Brody scowls and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are,” the guard grumbles at him, ignoring his attempt at humor and fidgeting uncomfortably as he checks the hallway behind him before he steps further into the room. “But if you think for one second you’re going to lay a finger on her…”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that little chat,” Robin chuckles and fluffs up his feather pillow. “Pretty sure you saw me with my fingers all over her, among other things…”

When Robin turns his head to throw Brody a cheeky grin, he expects him to be irritated and angry, to be snarling at him like any good guard dog. Instead, the other man just looks… exceptionally uneasy.

“Don’t remind me,” Brody rubs his eyes like he’s trying to physically force the images from his mind and continues, “Anyway, that’s not really what I meant.”

“No?”

“I have no interest in questioning Her Majesty’s decisions, especially her choice to… intermingle with the likes of, _of you_.”

Brody shakes his head as if that will make him believe it, as if it will magically remove the uncertainty from his tone. “But you need to be clear that from this point forward, as far as anyone else is concerned, you _are_ the Royal Huntsman. That’s how I’ll address you, that’s what I’ll consider you, as will everyone else in this castle. This isn’t a game – if you want to go strutting around the castle out in the open, then you have to play your part. I sure hope you know how to handle a bow.”

Robin smirks. “I think I can manage.”

“Good. And let’s get one thing straight,” Brody narrows his eyes and draws himself up to his full height, blocking out most of the doorway with his intimidating frame. “I’m only doing any of this because _she_ asked it of me - I don’t give two fucks about _you._ If something happens, if this goes south - it’s _her_ I’ll protect, at any and all costs. It is not my place to judge or cast approval on who the Queen keeps company with, and it doesn’t matter what I think about you. All that matters between you and me is that I take my job seriously, and I will see that the Queen is kept safe.”

Robin sits up and raises his eyebrows at the conviction - at the _loyalty_ \- in his voice as Brody continues.

“I _will_ protect her in every way that I can. I have done so since the day I met her, and I will do it until the day I die. Regardless of the favor she’s shown you, _I_ still don’t know what’s brought you to the castle, and I have a hunch that you’re up to no good. So if I hear a whisper, an inkling, even a rumor that you have ill intent toward the Queen,” the taller man drops his hand to the hilt of his sword, “there will be no hesitation, understand?” Brody levels him with perhaps the most serious and meaningful look Robin has ever seen from him. “I will personally run you through.”

“Fair enough.” Robin comes to stand before Brody, and he must admit that he doesn't necessarily dislike the other man, even with the hostile undertones of their relationship. The guard is undeniably good at his job, he takes protecting the Queen seriously, and Robin appreciates the man’s commitment to her.

His only worry stems from the thought that perhaps Brody is _too_ close to Regina. The Lieutenant's words were sincere, but Robin couldn’t help but notice that they were framed entirely around protecting her, specifically - not the Crown, or the Monarchy, but _the Queen_. No one can argue that Brody is loyal to Regina, but Robin worries that he is blindly so, especially since the man wears his concern for her on his sleeve like a badge of honor. It makes Robin wonder if the other man is carrying a bit of a torch for the Queen, makes him curious if there ever was, or still is, something _extra_ to their relationship.

“I can assure you, Brody - can I call you Brody?”

“No,” Brody frowns and corrects, “You may call me Lieutenant, like any other employee of the Crown.”

Robin smiles at the guard’s stubborn reluctance. “Well, Brody, I can assure you, whatever else I may or may not have planned has nothing to do with compromising the safety of the Queen.” He holds out his hand to Brody as a show of goodwill. “Her protection has become as important to me as it is to you.”

“I very much doubt that’s possible,” Brody furrows his brow as his chestnut brown eyes stare piercingly at Robin’s proffered hand, but after a few long seconds, he runs his fingers through his short black hair before he finally puffs out a breath and extends his hand to give Robin’s a hearty shake.

Robin is grateful for the other man’s temporary acceptance, and he can’t blame Brody for remaining suspicious. Robin knows that Brody can see through him, that he can see beneath the charm and wit, the snark, and smiles, and they _both_ know he isn't good enough for Regina. Not by a long shot.

Robin isn't afraid to admit what he is though. He knows his faults, he's aware that he's a man with a past that did _not_ shape him into a proper gentleman. Sure, he has some admirable traits, namely the way that he’s fiercely, unflinchingly loyal to his loved ones, and it’s true that his nature is predominantly level-headed and easy going. But he does, in fact, have a temper - one that has led him down the path of a scoundrel, thief, and trespassing criminal. He lives his life with a recklessness that he knows - and truly does not care - will likely be the death of him; and honestly, he’s well aware that he’s a bit cracked. Brody’s innate wariness of him only goes to show that the man has exceptionally good instincts.

“So… now that I’m the Royal Huntsman,” Robin drawls, “Does that mean I have permission to hunt in the King’s Forest?”

“Of course,” Brody rolls his eyes. “But I have a steady source for meat already in place, so there’s really no need for you to go skulking around out there.”

“Skulking?" Robin huffs out a laugh. "Now who said anything about _skulking?_ Besides, if I don't go and hunt, won’t someone notice?” Robin is skeptical of the ruse and honestly wouldn't mind the chance to hunt in the King's Forest. After years of sneaking in and out of the castle, of having to be so careful not to get caught, this seems much too simple.

“Not unless you give them a reason to,” the guard shrugs. “The Queen is extraordinarily meticulous in who she employs, so everyone will assume you've already been vetted. I can assure you that you won’t be questioned. And the King is…” Brody glances sideways in what isn’t _quite_ an eyeroll, but is close to it, “unobservant with matters he deems beneath him. As long as you don’t draw his attention, he won’t give two shits about you. And the only way to draw his attention is to make a threat against Snow, or to get close to the Queen, so stay the hell away from both of them when not behind closed doors.”

Robin nods and thanks Brody for his advice, genuinely impressed by the man’s willingness to help him and Regina. It turns out this bloke isn’t so bad when he’s not dragging him down to the dungeon, or beating the shit out of him, or threatening his life. Robin can see why Regina likes him.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Brody moves out into the hallway, then turns back to Robin, his expression stoic and professional. “And I’ll bid you again to be careful, Huntsman,” he needlessly warns, “I’ve got my eye on you.”

“I’ll expect nothing less,” Robin acknowledges, “But she’s got nothing to fear from me.”

Brody nods, but then he pauses and slides his hand into his pocket. Robin watches as he frowns, slides his other hand into his other pocket and looks down before he fishes in both pockets at the same time, confusion written across his face.

“Oh, right,” Robin cuts in, holding out the key he’d lifted, grinning at how easily he’d pickpocketed him. “Sorry, old habits die hard.”

Brody’s head tips up and he scowls at Robin, but he does not attempt to take back the large, ornate key.

“Fucking thief,” the guard mutters, then rather defeatedly, he adds, “Keep it, but put it somewhere safe. The Queen asked me to give it to you - it’s er,” he looks uncomfortable again, “It’s the key to her private quarters.”

Robin is admittedly a bit surprised by such an action from Regina, but he’s extremely pleased by it too. He nods at Brody and slips the key back into his own pocket, his heart pounding with excitement. It’s not like he couldn’t pick the lock to her room - he’s done it before - but it’s the principle of the thing. It’s the idea that she wants him to have even _easier_ access to her, that she has essentially just invited him to see her whenever he might want, that she has given him an open invitation that says, _please do_.

Perhaps she really meant what she said, and she’s starting to have feelings for him too, even if she _can’t._

“Mind that key,” Brody lowers his voice. “The Queen does not invite many visitors, so you’d be wise to use it sparingly and with much forethought.”

He looks Robin up and down with a disapproving curl in his upper lip and shakes his head before he adds, “If you go acting like a fool and someone catches you in the Queen’s chambers out of turn, I’ll be forced to carry out a punishment as if we’ve never had this conversation. I’ll have to torture you.”

Robin grins and quips, “I bet you’d just hate that.”

Brody shrugs. “Don’t be an idiot, and we won’t have to find out.” And with that, the Lieutenant turns on his heel and stalks off down the hall.

* * *

Robin promised her he wouldn’t touch anything, that he’d keep his _sticky, greedy, thieving hands_ to himself, but Regina’s just got so many rare, exotic, and sometimes dangerous items organized so tidily on every nook and cranny of her shelves, that as he casually peruses her potion stores, he can’t quite restrain himself.

“Is this really…?” Robin wonders aloud, picking up a small vial that contains very delicate looking, bright green, shimmering scales.

Regina turns from her workbench and narrows her eyes.

“Put that back.”

“Dragonling scales,” he reads her handwritten label, admittedly in awe, then raises his brows.

“Your Majesty,” he admonishes, teasing her. “I’m shocked. Surely you are aware that, due to their rarity, it’s highly illegal to harvest dragonlings. You can get arrested for having contraband like this.”

“And what? Thrown in my own dungeon?” she says dryly, already having gone back to what she was doing. “Put it back, Thief. And I know _exactly_ how many scales are in there – so don’t even think of doing what I know you’re doing.”

Robin smirks and quietly replaces the stopper on the vial. He was absolutely going to nick a couple of those scales. They can fetch a pretty penny in the right market.

“And what do we have here?” He moves his attention to another vial, this one full of a translucent viscous liquid that has several red, beady eyeballs floating in it that, no matter which way he turns the vial, always seem to be staring right at him. “Mothman eyes? What the bloody hell are Mothman eyes?”

“Robin, don’t…” he hears the warning in her tone and tries to look at her, but he can’t seem to pull his gaze from the mesmerizing little eyes in the jar. They’re just… they’re utterly _captivating_ , like they’re looking right into his soul, right down into the very depths of what make him _who_ he is.

A cold chill shivers down his back and he wants to look away, but he finds that he can’t. It’s like he’s paralyzed, and he can’t do anything but stare into the eyes, the red eyes that see too much, that _know_ too much. Suddenly every single weakness he has, every doubt, every fear is presented to him–

He sees his mother and father shaking their heads in disappointment, wasting away as cold and starvation overcome them–

He sees his little sister begging in tatters, crawling in the dirt and filth and succumbing to death in all the worst of ways–

He sees his mates getting strung up and cut down by the King's men in the streets–

He sees Regina being raped, and whipped, and wrapped up in red-hot irons as he stands to the side doing _nothing–_

He sees his childhood monsters, every bump in the night that instilled terror inside of him–

It all comes crashing over him at once, and Robin starts to tremble with fear – they’re going to get him, those eyes, those glowing red eyes –

“Damnit, Robin!”

The vial is ripped out of his hand and the hypnosis is broken; Robin is able to move again, and he gasps for air - the first breath he’s taken since he was sucked into the trance.

“I _told you_ not to touch anything,” Regina snaps, rolling her eyes as she carefully sets the Mothman eyes back up on the shelf, takes him by the wrist and drags him over to a large trunk in the corner. “Sit.”

He feels foolish and childish, but he’s literally shaking with fright, so Robin does exactly as she commands, plunks down on the chest and sits there with his hands folded neatly in his lap as she glares down at him like an angry schoolmarm.

“The fear will dissipate in a moment,” she tells him sternly. “And now you know better than to go staring into Mothman eyes.”

He nods his head but doesn’t respond. Bloody terrifying, that was. Lesson learned though - he doesn’t even want to know what the hell else she’s got down here.

“You’re lucky it was the Mothman eyes and not the Medusa,” Regina cocks her head to the side, and, with a completely straight face, she adds, “I don’t really have room for a Thief-sized statue in here.”

Robin chuffs out a laugh, and when she lightly strokes her fingers down the curve of his jaw, he catches her hand in his still-shaking one and presses a kiss to the back of it. She wraps her fingers firmly around his chin and shakes his face as if she’s preparing to scold him again, but then she leans in and kisses him instead. She is hard and insistent at first, then slower, _slower,_ until her satin-soft lips are pillowing sweetly against his, causing his fears to dissipate nearly as fast as they had formed.

She finally pulls away with another brush or two of her fingers through his hair, and Robin wonders if she would believe him if he were to tell her just how effectively she soothed him. She has told him so many times that _the Evil Queen’s_ most effective tool is fear – he has seen her depend on it, cling to it - and he seriously doubts that she is aware of how much love is in her, how much good.

She is capable of so much more than simply instigating terror.

Now is not the time for such a conversation though. Regina must concentrate, for she’s hard at work, brewing her monthly infertility potion, an incredibly complicated task from what he’s witnessed. He’s lucky she didn’t throw him out on his arse just now, actually, because she had been reluctant to bring him down here in the first place. She had warned him that he’d be bored to tears, that she’d not tolerate any demands that she ‘hurry up.’ She had explained at least a dozen times that there was nothing she could do to speed the process along, and how if he couldn’t handle that, then he shouldn’t come. She had suggested that instead of them spending this time together, that he simply wait for her in his bed, and in a few hours when she was done, if she was feeling up to it, she might join him.

It was a tempting offer, to lay in bed and wait for her to come to him, but honestly, _that_ seemed a lot more boring than what they’re doing now. He wants to know this part of her, wants to see what this is all about, and really, why she tries so bloody hard to hide her obvious excitement when she talks about her potions. It seems important to her, seems like one of the few things that brings her a bit of joy, and he’d like to understand what it is that makes her light up like a firefly when she speaks of it. It’s the first time he’s seen her act this way, like she’s almost invested in the activity, and he’s not afraid to admit that he’s trying to figure her out. He _likes_ her, thinks she’s brilliant and interesting, and he can’t help wanting to know more about her, regardless of their no-win situation.

He’s learned so much about her in just the last couple of hours that he’s infinitely grateful that she hadn’t been able to talk him out of this. As she showed him around, Regina explained to him that as a child, when her magic hadn’t manifested in the way her mother had hoped, Cora had gone insane with disappointment. Regina had tried everything to make the magic come, to develop it, but in the end, there was nothing she could do. It is an inherent gift, a function of her body that she can no more improve than she can improve her breathing or her pulse, and as much as she might want to, she is limited by what she was born with.

She refers to herself as _magically stunted_ \- a term he’s certain her mother gave to her - and he’s added that to the list of reasons he’d love for Cora to drop dead. She says that her magic isn’t strong enough for her to create spells or cast curses - that she’ll never be able to conjure objects from thin air, to teleport, levitate, or snatch a beating heart from a man’s chest and have him live to tell the tale. According to Regina, her magic is _barely_ magic at all, just enough for her to do what the entire magical community considers the most rudimentary of tasks – potion making - and whatever happened in the corridor when her mother was trying to kill her must have been some sort of survival instinct, because she hasn’t been able to repeat it in the slightest.

Robin has noticed that she’s different down here in her little laboratory than she normally is. Surrounded by the safety of her books, with all her special tools set out just how she likes them, and her piles upon piles of handwritten notes to keep her company, she’s the most at ease he’s ever seen. She is truly _Regina._ Brody is posted outside the door to make sure she isn’t interrupted for any reason, and as she glides back and forth across the room, completing the various tasks it takes to formulate her potion, her brow pinched and lips pursed just the slightest in deep concentration, a little vein standing up in her forehead, he can see how doing this is some form of escape for her, how losing herself to the process gives her a bit of respite, even if only for a few hours once a month. Regina is calm and steady, practiced and patient - she is truly at home here, and she is more stunning than Robin has ever seen her.

He has no doubt that she’s a bloody expert when it comes to potions. She’s brilliant at everything she does, and as he watches her work this evening, from the smooth handling of the ingredients she’s using, all the way up through the rhythmic movements of her hands as she heats, stirs, and otherwise concocts the mixture, it’s evident that she knows what she’s doing. As far as he’s concerned, she has every right to be excited and proud of what she has accomplished in this little room of hers.

He has a suspicion that she’s never allowed anyone else in here, and it confuses him that she has allowed him, of all people, to bear witness to it. For at least the first twenty minutes they were in here, she had been completely unable to stand still. She had paced fervently, had wrung her fingers, and kept tucking her long bangs back behind her ear, all while animatedly walking him through how everything worked. She had confided to him some of her most treasured and rare ingredients, had given him dozens of examples of the potions she could create, and when she finally caught herself "talking too much", he’d good-naturedly demanded she tell him more, simply because he’d never heard her speak so passionately about anything before. She’s beautiful and exceptionally adorable when she’s excited, when she’s stuttering over her words and blushing furiously while confessing that she has twenty books about the same ancient bloke who’s been dead for three hundred years, simply because he’s her favorite, most influential potion-maker who invented the first magical ladle that wouldn’t dissolve.

Robin has been genuinely enthralled by it all – he has never been in a real potion's laboratory before, and he had no idea what to expect. Her laboratory is quite the set-up, and honestly, he’d expect nothing less from the meticulous Queen he’s come to know. Unsettling ingredients aside, she has all kinds of fancy equipment – decanters, vials, flasks, funnels, stirring rods, even a few small cauldrons. But none of that is as impressive as the dozens upon dozens of books and fancy grimoires she has, all filled with information on potion-making. Everything from the biographies of famous potioneers, to catalogues of ingredients and where to harvest them, to the ancient history up through the latest and greatest developments in potions – she has an enormous amount of literature – and apparently she can pinpoint, right down to the page, her exact reference in every one of them.

As it turns out, when it comes to potions, Regina is a bit of a nerd. And stranger still, it doesn’t even cross his mind to tease her about it.

He finds that he fucking loves this about her, that he is impressed as hell, and he honestly doesn’t know how to even compliment her on it without sounding like a complete dolt, so he nods and keeps his trap shut instead. It pulls every single one of his heartstrings that she’s such an academic, that she clearly has a serious affinity for literature and yet somehow, when he told her all about Belle’s similar love for it, she didn’t feel the need to steal the spotlight for herself.

She could have – _should have_ \- cut him off during his little rant about his sister. She should have rolled her eyes when he was going on and on about how smart, how _intelligent_ Belle was, about how she was going to be something, how the world lost out on such a wonderful gift when his sister had died, but she hadn’t.

Instead, Regina had nodded in understanding - as if she believed that Belle really _could_ have been something. She had held him close, had comforted him, and had kept her little secret about being a bloody genius to herself. She had withheld that she’s ten times more brilliant than anyone this realm has ever known, and now Robin’s got these odd little jitters inside every time he looks over at her, and every time he can feel her dark, intelligent eyes slipping over to stare back at him.

And he can’t help but wonder, what the _fuck_ can she possibly see in him?

As the hour grows late, he can see her starting to grow self-conscious while he waits for her to finish brewing, and when she starts spouting something about how she’s probably bored him to death, Robin vehemently disagrees. Wanting to keep her talking, to continue this lovely evening they’ve spent, he asks her how old she was when she brewed her first potion.

“I was ten when I started studying potions, and by the age of sixteen, I had essentially mastered the craft. For all the good it did...” She runs her fingers lightly across the leather-bound spines of her grimoires as she walks slowly along the wall. “I thought that if I could be the most accomplished potion master this realm has ever seen, perhaps that would satisfy my mother, and I wouldn’t have to marry the King.”

Regina pauses and turns her face to him, gives him a dark look and mutters, “I was such a fool.”

“You were a child,” Robin corrects. “I don’t know your mother, but I’ve seen the kind of damage she can do. No one can blame you for having a bit of hope - you had to try something.”

“Now that's where you're wrong.” She frowns and shakes her head. “There is _everything_ wrong with having hope. Hope is what gets you killed… or worse.”

She goes silent for a bit after that, and he doesn’t press her about it. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ruin this by stirring up an argument that he knows they won't come to terms on. Regina's got a terribly pessimistic side to her, a dark cloud that permanently hangs over her head, and she's got plenty of reasons for it. Robin is not about to go toe to toe with her when she's already told him she can’t (or won’t) accept the rubbish offering of a life he's got to offer to her.

She’s over halfway through brewing this double batch of her infertility potion now, which is a failsafe she’s put into place since Robin caught her mother swapping it out on her. She’s been playing Cora at her own game – placing her potion in the same place as usual and pretending to take it, except _not_. Instead, Regina collects the one she suspects her mother has tampered with in a separate vial and brings it down to her laboratory where she can analyze it, and she drinks a second, secret vial, which Brody keeps on him at all times.

According to Regina’s analysis, on three separate occasions now, she would have taken a fertility _boosting_ potion instead of her regular birth control, had she not been tipped-off to her mother’s antics.

Another hour ticks by uninterrupted before he dares to break the silence, but her back isn’t as stiff anymore, her jaw not as set, and the air in the room seems to have shifted to something calmer, too.

“Why not just drink it right away?” Robin asks while she adds some sort of shimmery pink liquid to the mixture and gives it a good stir. “Say, the second it’s done, why not just throw it back, straight down the hatch? Then Brody wouldn’t have to carry it around, and you wouldn’t have to risk any meddling.”

Regina gives him a knowing, self-satisfied half-smile that says she was already anticipating his question, but keeps her eyes on the mixture in front of her as she smoothly stirs and answers him.

“It has to settle for three days before I can drink it. Brody is the only one who I…” She pauses, frowns, then nods. “He’s the only one I could ever ask to take care of this for me.”

“You know, I’d–”

“ _No_ ,” she cuts him off firmly before he can offer to help. “ _Don’t_.”

A sinking feeling comes over Robin at the way she so quickly refused him. He wanted to offer to carry this burden for her, and he feels a bit jilted that she won't accept, that she almost seems cross with him now, like he’s stepped out of bounds again, or tried to make their relationship into something _more_ , something she considers to be totally inappropriate, just by trying to be decent to her.

He just wants to be helpful, wants to show her he’s here for her too, but he doesn’t want to scare her off again. More than anything though, he's terrified of losing her by trying to hold onto her too tightly, by trying to push her into things she's not ready for, and now that she’s cut him out of this, he feels awkward, stupid, and just plain _bad,_ so he just… doesn’t say anything else.

He wishes she trusted him the way she puts so much of her faith in her Lieutenant, but he feels like he really did learn his lesson after the my _darling_ debacle. He knows now that if he wants to stay within a hundred leagues of her, that he’s got to let her have control of the situation, he must let her decide if, when, and how to put her faith in him. So even though his adoration for her seems to grow with each passing day, he resolves to keep it all bottled up inside. There’s nothing he can do to force her to fall in love with him, nothing he can say to change her mind about their relationship, and he doesn’t want to make her feel bad over something that neither of them can control. This is the price he must pay for falling for a Queen.

It’s difficult, but he’s trying to accept that this is as good as it gets for them, that making a life with her can’t go beyond a fantasy. He knows this is not a fairytale - he is not a prince, not a knight in shining armor, nor is she some damsel in distress waving her handkerchief at him as he rides up on a white horse and slays the monster that’s threatening her. In no way are they about to galloping off into the sunset to live happily ever after - the very thought of it is laughable. Given the choice, he doubts she’d ever go for that, and honestly, neither would he. Playing the hero just doesn’t suit him, and she certainly doesn’t need _him_ to save her. She is more than capable of saving herself, should she choose to do so.

No. This is… pretty much it. She is the Queen of the Enchanted Forest, and he is, well, not much. And truth be told, he’s alright with being her plaything, her temporary amusement - at least until she grows tired of him and decides to chuck him like yesterday’s rubbish. He's not sure how he's ever going to survive that.

He wonders if there have been other men who have entertained the Queen in this way - he’s never actually asked her straight out - and it’s a dark thought, one that makes his heart sink to think that he might not be the only one, that she might just be a fantastic actress and he might just be a bigger fool than he ever imagined. His thoughts drift to her Lieutenant, to Brody’s unwavering protectiveness, the way Regina puts her faith in him, the way the two of them seem to hold such consistent, close confidence while she seems to push and pull at Robin like the changing of the tides. 

He thinks about all the nights he doesn’t spend with her, and he wonders if she might be spending them with someone other than the King. It doesn't help that she's changed her mind about the way they can have sex - that she decided that time on the desk was a "mistake" and they can't do it _that way_ again, so they're back to the way they were doing it before, which is still fantastic, it's just... The whole situation with that just makes him feel like a bloody failure of a man for not having done a good enough job for her the one and only time he had to get it right, and now he doesn't know what to do to please her, or rather, to _impress_ her. It's got him hesitating, it's got him feeling like a fucking chump, like a fool, like a great big incompetent git whenever they're together, and he's got no idea if she knows that or not.

Robin drops his head to his hands and runs them over his face as this nasty feeling skitters across his skin like a thousand creepy-crawling bugs, and finally, he recognizes these feelings as what they really are. Jealousy, fear, desperation - _Christ,_ he's got to pull himself together. This is fucking pathetic.

It’s almost amusing, really - he’s never been this sort of bloke, has never fallen all over himself for a woman before, has never doubted himself, never felt the slightest need for validation from someone else, particularly a Royal with more radiance and class than he can shake a stick at.

It's just that, regardless of what Regina said about _wanting him if she could_ , Robin knows better. He knows how the world works, how relationships work, how _love_ works.

He knows that if he hasn't won her heart by now, then he never will, and one day she'll lose interest in all this. One day, she'll wake up and realize how ridiculous this is, how it is _so not_ worth the risk. She will look at him and once again see a peasant, a common thief, nothing more than another person who has wasted her time. He has nothing to offer her - he is no Champion, no Lord, hell, he’s not even a tradesman, and when she gets bored with this situation of theirs, she _will_ get rid of him.

And it’s going to hurt like hell _._

So for his own sake, for his sanity, he shouldn’t just loaf about and wait for the day she decides to put a stop to all of this. He can’t help himself from staying with her - he’s already fallen, has already committed to being with her for as long as she’ll have him - and he’s not about to change his mind. But, if he has any sense at all, he _should_ keep moving forward with his other plans, because if he doesn’t, then he’s going to be even more disappointed when she throws him out on his arse and he has absolutely nothing but a broken heart and a whole lot of wasted time to show for it.

He supposes he’d better get a message to the Merry Men then, and they better get moving on the next stage of their operation before Regina decides his neck looks better in a noose than laying against her feather pillow, because he doesn't doubt that someday soon, she will.

Besides, it’s not like it’s a secret that their relationship is on a timer. She’s told him over and over that there’s no future for them. There is no _hope_ for their relationship - because in her mind, _hope is what gets you killed, or worse -_ and she’s made it very clear that she’s not about to let that happen to them.


End file.
